Thorne stepped to River’s side. “Are you okay?” he asked his brother.
River didn’t reply. The drunk guys had gone but River still looked anxious.
“Will there be food at your party?” Linton called as he walked away backwards.
“Yeah.”
“Text me your address. If I’m not washing my hair, I’ll try and make it.”
“I’ll see you before then, though, right?”
“You might.” Linton turned the right way around.
Thorne wondered if Linton had a smile on his face, because he did.
Chapter Thirteen
Linton walked for a while before he went back to his flat, trying and failing to get his head straight. Beating River at chess had been a fluke. Linton had known sacrificing his queen would mislead River into thinking he’d win and so he’d be less likely to spot the upcoming move Linton hoped to make. He was astounded when the ploy worked. Because River never lost, the others at the chess club thought Linton was a much better player than he actually was.
In a way, he was playing a similar game with Thorne, and couldn’t help wondering if Thorne would see what he was doing, reeling him in even as he pushed him away. But the problem was the game was no longer a game. Linton kept losing sight of the reason he was with Thorne because it was no longer the reason. Shit. It hadn’t been from the moment he’d met him. He’d done just what Owen warned him against.
Before he went to bed, he retrieved his other phone. There was a message from Owen asking him to contact him no matter what the time. Linton sprawled on the bed and made the call.
“Did you see him on TV?” Owen asked.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I was…busy with something.” Linton almost said he’d been washing his hair. “What did he say?”
“That he and I weren’t the right match.”
Linton heard the catch in Owen’s voice and kept quiet.
“But we were,” Owen whispered. “We were perfect together. We had fun. We never argued. We were in love. Why would we have been going to get married if we weren’t suited?”
Much to Linton’s dismay, he felt a surge of envy. Not that he was interested in love and marriage but whatever had happened between Thorne and Owen, the pair had at one time intended to spend their lives together. “So what happened?” He knew he’d not heard the whole story.
“Thorne said he was trying to get involved with someone but he wasn’t sure the feeling was reciprocated.”
Linton’s stomach lurched. That wasn’t an answer to the question he’d asked, but what Thorne had said was a reason to stop this now before things went any further, before anyone got hurt.
“So you did it.” Owen’s voice was flat. “You made him like you. I knew you could do it. You can make anyone like you.”
Bloody hell. “I don’t want to do this.”
“And you like him too. You’ve fallen for him.”
Not fallen but maybe falling. “Are you listening, Owen? I won’t go through with this.”
“Max said you’d try to worm out of it but you can’t. He paid you. You’re the only one who understands how fucked-up I am and it’s partly your fault.” Owen let out a muffled sob.
“It’s not—”
“I might as well be dead. If you don’t do this I’ll make sure I succeed next time.”
“Owen!”
“I mean it. I’ll kill myself. You want that on your conscience?”
Linton heard Owen wail, then Max spoke. “Linton?”
“Yes.”
“What have you said to him?”
Why was it so much harder telling Max? “I don’t want to do this.”
“Tough. We have a deal and you’re going to stick to it because you’re fucked whether you continue or not, but more fucked if you back out. Once Thorne discovers the truth, that you were paid to seduce and humiliate him, you think he’ll still be interested in you? You’ll have lost everything, including your job. So think carefully before you do something stupid.”
Linton pressed the button to end the call. There was a simple way to solve this. Tell Thorne the truth, reassure him there was no way he’d ridicule him at that charity event, but maybe they could just pretend it was going to happen so that Linton could keep the money and…and what? The guy wasn’t going to go along with that. Thorne had nothing to gain and a lot to lose. Linton liked him. He wished he didn’t, but he did.
So don’t go to the party. Don’t answer his calls. Make him lose interest.
His other phone pinged with a message. Thorne had sent his Holland Park address and a message.
I like you more than I can say. I’m not writing this in text speak because I want you to see I mean every word. You’re different. You make me laugh. You piss me off. Yet I’m hard just thinking about you. I want to get to know you. I know you’re wavering. Give me a chance to show you the real me. Don’t wait until the party. I’m giving myself repetitive strain injury.
Linton groaned. Oh fuck.
The following morning, Linton set off for Thorne’s house with the intention of revealing everything. Max would both sack him and demand the return of his money, but Linton would disappear long enough that there was no way that could happen. He’d pay it back eventually— somehow. He might have destroyed his own future but hopefully he’d ensured Dirk’s.
He took his messenger bag with him along with his sketch pad and pencils because after he’d confessed he was going to spend the rest of the day in Kew Gardens in the hope that being somewhere tranquil would make him feel better.
By the time he stepped off the Tube, his stomach rolled with anxiety and his pulse was racing. He doubted Thorne would give him chance to explain properly and if the guy didn’t know about what had happened to him and Owen when they were teenagers, Linton didn’t feel he should tell him. To be honest, he didn’t want to tell him. In any case, nothing excused Linton agreeing to going along with this.
As he approached Café Printemps Marta was outside clearing a table.
She smiled at him. “Good morning. You sit inside or out?”
“Here’s fine.” Linton hadn’t meant to stop but he dropped down at the table he’d sat at before.
“Coffee? Blueberry muffin?” Marta asked.
Linton smiled. “Well remembered, except make it a round of toast instead of the muffin, please.”
His smile faded as she walked away. On the way to Holland Park, he’d tried to come up with a way of opening the conversation with Thorne and so far had had little success.
There’s something I need to tell you. Pause while Thorne registered it was not going to be good news. When did that statement ever herald good news?
I’m an old school friend of Owen’s. Would he listen to another word?
Is there anything you wouldn’t do to help your brother? Something a lot bigger than give up a chance of fucking me?
Oh God.
Linton wished he could turn back the clock. Except how far would he turn it? When had his life ever been right?
Marta was delivering his order to the table when Linton spotted River coming down the pavement. Linton wondered if the guy would even see him, maybe it would be better if he didn’t, but River looked up when he reached the café, saw Marta and blushed, then noticed Linton and gaped at him.
“Hi, River,” Linton said.
“Good morning,” Marta said. “What a lovely name. I didn’t know that is your name. River. It’s very nice. Lovely morning too. Beautiful clouds.”
She sounded nervous. Linton thought he could guess why.
“Cirrocumulus are one of the three main types of high altitude tropospheric clouds.” River stood motionless and kept his gaze fixed on the pavement. “They usually occur between sixteen and thirty-nine thousand feet. Most often seen in winter. So unusual to see now.”
There was a long pause.
“A mackerel sky.” Linton glanced between the pair of them.
“Scal
es of fish, right?” Marta asked.
“Yes, the undulating, rippling pattern caused by high altitude atmospheric waves gives a similar appearance to the scales of a fish,” River mumbled.
“So what weather for later?” She smiled at him.
“Fine all day,” River told the paving slabs.
“You useful person to have around,” she said.
River said nothing.
“River, would you like to have a coffee with me?” Linton asked.
It looked as though it was the last thing the guy wanted to do, so Linton was surprised when he dropped into the seat opposite.
“Cappuccino and croissant?” Marta asked.
River gave her a quick nod and then examined the table. So he’d been here before.
“She’s nice,” Linton said after Marta had gone back inside.
“Yes.”
Linton decided not to press River to talk. He took out his sketch pad and began another drawing of Marta. When she came out with River’s order—there were two entwined hearts drawn on the foam—she glanced at Linton’s pad.
“Me again?”
“I thought River might like it. Is that okay?”
“Yes.” She beamed and went back inside.
Linton worked quickly in between bites of now cold toast and handed over the sketch.
“It looks like her,” River said. “Thank you.”
“Why don’t you invite her to the party?”
“She…” River’s voice tapered off.
“Might say yes.” Linton looked up and raised his eyebrows.
“You think she might?”
Linton nodded.
“Are you going to come?”
“Pretty sure I’ll be washing my hair.” He’d be the last person Thorne would want to see.
“Don’t you like my brother?”
Too much. “Yes, I do.”
“Then come to the party. He’s having it because of you. We don’t have parties. He’s been sad but you’ve made him happy again.”
A lump erupted in Linton’s throat. “We’ve only met a couple of times.”
“Why does that matter?”
Linton didn’t answer.
“He’s gone to the police station this morning to make you pleased with him.”
“What?” Linton’s heart slammed into his throat.
“He told me they wanted him to look at pictures of men who might have hurt your brother.”
Oh shit.
Thorne sat in front of a monitor in the police station zapping through images looking for the guys who attacked Linton’s brother. Orlando had instructed him to make sure the lawyer was with him and Thorne had done as he was told. The lawyer had quietly advised him that if he managed to identify the men he might be at risk, but Thorne wanted to do the right thing for once in his life. He’d heard what Linton had said about looking after his brother and maybe this was a way he could show Linton he understood.
He felt as if he’d been looking at pictures for hours before he spotted the first guy. Ten minutes later, he’d picked out the second.
Thorne was thanked for his time, and he caught a cab to Orlando’s office. Another of his agent’s instructions.
Rosie, Orlando’s PA, gave him a cup of coffee when he arrived. Thorne sat opposite her desk.
“What sort of mood is he in?” Thorne asked.
She rolled her eyes. “The usual. Tigger in a suit.”
Thorne laughed. Orlando had a lot of energy.
The reception area had two long shelves of bonsai trees. One of Orlando’s hobbies. Thorne knew better than to touch, but he stood up so he could take a better look. It was hard to believe they were actually alive.
“Beautiful, aren’t they?” His agent came up at his side.
Twisted little things, just like Orlando. “Yep, but a lot of work, I’d guess.”
“I can cut and sculpt the trees to do more or less what I want.”
“Like you manipulate your clients?”
Orlando laughed. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed the parallels. It’s a never-ending project, particularly in your case. Plus, nature will always have the last word. There’s only so much I can do.” He looked Thorne up and down. “Come into my office.”
Thorne followed him.
“How did it go at the police station?” Orlando asked.
“I’m sure you already know.”
Orlando leaned back in his chair. “Were they pleased with you?”
“You can’t use any of this. It could end up going to trial.”
Orlando shrugged. “Sure, but I’ve banked it.”
Thorne hoped he never used it.
“Anyway, I didn’t call you here for that. I have some great news. Reiver want you for Dirty Angel.”
Thorne whistled. “What? Already? No audition?”
“Nope. Sam Winter, the director, thinks you’re perfect and the casting guy agrees. They need you in Ireland for some publicity shots next week. It’s going to be filmed there. Rosie will email the details.”
“Who’s playing the vet?”
“Kirby Jones. He’s straight. Leave him alone.”
Thorne ignored the jibe. He was thrilled to get the part and was desperate to tell—Linton. Oh God. Not Josh. Not River. Linton.
The moment he was out of Orlando’s office, he called him. And the bastard didn’t answer, just like he hadn’t responded to the text he’d sent yesterday. Fuck. He decided to leave a message.
“Hey, it’s me. I want to see you. Can you get out of the office and meet me for a coffee? Where do you work?”
When his phone rang a moment later, Thorne almost dropped it when he saw who was calling.
“You are there. I need to see you. Christ, I’ve got something to tell you. Where are you?”
“I’m in your house.”
A choked laugh burst from Thorne’s mouth. “Seriously?”
“Yeah.”
“Find anything interesting?”
“The extensive porn collection under your bed. You kinky boy.”
Thorne laughed. There was nothing under his bed but dust.
“I’m having a coffee with Josh and River.”
Thorne stuck his hand out for a cab. “Why aren’t you at work?”
“I work from home.”
“But— Damn. No table in the boardroom?”
“I do have a pretty sturdy kitchen table. Yours looks a bit flimsy.”
Thorne chuckled, gave the cab driver his address and settled back in the seat. “Don’t leave. I’m on my way.”
By the time the cab dropped him off, Thorne was bursting with excitement. He slammed into the house and made straight for the kitchen. He hadn’t intended to blurt out that he’d landed a starring role but…
“I’ve been given the lead in a film. They didn’t even want me to audition. Sam Winter is the director. He’s brilliant. I am so psyched.”
Thorne yanked Linton to his feet and kissed him. He hadn’t meant to do that either and when he felt Linton resist, he almost wished he hadn’t. But the resistance faded, though it took slightly longer than Thorne would have wished before Linton curled his arms around him. Just one quick kiss.
Ah fuck it. Thorne immediately realised he’d made a mistake. Nothing could be quick about this. Why should he be quick when Linton tasted so divine? When he could feel Linton’s cock hardening against his? He heard Josh pointedly coughing. Tough. But Linton broke away. And now he won’t look at me. Why? Thorne’s stomach took a dive to the tiled floor. Linton had flirted on the phone so what had happened in the meantime?
“Congratulations,” Josh said. “What’s the film about?”
“About a guy who dies and comes back to life with one black and one white wing. He gets another chance at redemption. A gay romantic suspense.”
“Congrats.” Linton flashed him a quick smile.
“I have to go to Ireland next week to do some publicity shots.” Thorne stared straight at Linton. “Will you come?�
��
The Adam’s apple in Linton’s throat slid up and down. “I can’t.”
A phone rang. Not his. Josh leaned back to grab his mobile from the worktop.
“Why not?” Thorne made sure he didn’t look as though he gave a shit, but he did give a shit. “I’ll pay for your ticket. If you work from home, you can work from Ireland.” When they weren’t fucking.
“Oh my God,” Josh said.
Thorne felt Josh’s gaze settle on him and turned.
“That’s… Yeah,” Josh said. “He’s here… Is he…? Shit. How bad? I’ll tell him… Okay. Thanks.”
“What?” Thorne asked.
“That was Nate.”
Do not fucking bristle. Thorne bit down on the inside of his cheeks.
“There’s been an accident,” Josh said. “Owen’s crashed his brother’s car into a wall.”
“Deliberately?” Oh fuck, I ask that and not if he’s okay? “Is he all right?” Thorne could feel his throat constricting.
“Nate doesn’t know how badly he’s been hurt,” Josh said.
Linton pushed to his feet. “I should go.”
“No,” Thorne barked. “Don’t.”
Linton picked up his bag and backed off, his face drained of its tan. When Thorne reached for him, Josh caught Thorne’s shoulder and pulled him round.
“Are you all right?” Josh asked.
“Yeah.”
When Thorne turned back, Linton had gone.
“Let him go,” Josh said. “Sit down. You’re white as a sheet. You want me to drive you to the hospital?”
“No.” He shrugged Josh aside and bolted from the house.
Linton was just disappearing around the corner with his phone pressed to his ear. He had to have run to get that far. Thorne raced after him. He didn’t know what had panicked Linton, but he could guess and Linton was wrong. Thorne sped up and caught up with him as Linton pushed his phone back into his pocket.
“Wait,” Thorne said. “Whatever you’re thinking, you’re wrong.”
Thorne expected a response, but Linton said nothing.
Thorne took a deep breath. “Six weeks ago I was engaged to Owen Devere. We broke up. He took it badly. He slit his wrists. Now it looks as if he might have tried to kill himself again. Owen’s a fucked-up guy and he’s not my responsibility. I don’t care about him anymore. But I don’t wish the guy dead.”
Dirty Games Page 17