by L. A. Witt
“And that means, what?”
Raoul shrugged. “That he likes working here? He likes his job?” The eyebrow climbed a little higher. “That he really likes his boss?”
Go get your gold medal in matchmaking, you fucker.
Frank gave him an even stare. “You set me up, didn’t you?”
Raoul struck that diva pose, which would have appeared more innocent if he weren’t six foot five of South American beefcake who probably wrestled cows for entertainment. Muscle queen, like picked from a catalogue. “I thought he’d fit, that’s all.”
Fit where?
“If I’d handed you a shopping list, he couldn’t have been better.”
Raoul responded with a sly look. “I actually thought he might be a bit young for you, but the rest . . .”
“There’s that.” Frank shrugged. “I never should have gotten drunk with you that one evening.” That night when they’d compared kink lists and discovered they would be compatible, if not for the fact that they didn’t have a great deal of chemistry. Plus, Frank had been terribly depressed then, so he’d been more interested in getting drunk than getting laid. Under different circumstances, things might have happened, but if Raoul and him had ended up together, maybe he’d be a bartender short now, and Raoul was a good one, keeping an eye on the new arrivals, another on the bar staff, and a third (and God knew where that one was located on his body) on the rentboys.
“So, how’s he working out?”
“In what way?”
“You know. Sex-wise, you guys should ignite the bed.”
“I’ve taken him paintballing. Introduced him to some friends. It’s . . . slow and steady. Easy.”
Raoul grinned and shook his head. “Seems like a bit of a waste, going slow and easy with him.”
Frank laughed. “I didn’t mean everything is slow and easy. I’m not sure he knows the meaning of that phrase when it comes to the bedroom.” Except he did. All too well. Right when Frank thought they’d be fast and furious, Brandon had changed things up and—
“I can only imagine.” Raoul’s voice dragged Frank back into the present. “And by the way? You’re welcome.”
“Yeah, fuck you.” Frank chuckled, but it was halfhearted. “What did you think was going to happen, anyway? You know I don’t fuck the rentboys.”
“No, but I figured if one ticked all your boxes, you might.”
“And then what?” Frank sighed. “Kid’s still gotta work for me.”
Raoul nodded. “I know. But, look. When I stumbled across him, he was a bartender itching to shove one of the other strippers out of the way and show him how it was done. He was chomping at the bit for a job like this. And that, my friend, is exactly what you need to get you back into the game.”
Frank eyed him. “Is that right?”
“Think about it.” Raoul shrugged. “He’s a prostitute. A manwhore. A rent—”
“I got it, thanks.”
“Point being, he’s not relationship material. He’s something young and feisty to remind you why you like men in the first place.”
Exhaling, Frank pinched the bridge of his nose. “And what happens if he and I both like it more than we should?”
Raoul seemed to consider the question for a moment before he shrugged again. “Then everybody wins.”
“You really think so?”
“Why not? So what if he works for you?”
Yeah. Why not? Because of things Raoul didn’t know about Frank. He couldn’t possibly know how complicated this could get. Hell, Frank wasn’t sure he knew how complicated it could get.
“Well, I guess we’ll see what happens,” Frank said. “But, keep this all to yourself, would you?”
“Of course.”
“Thanks.”
Raoul left Frank to his thoughts, and naturally, those thoughts went to Brandon. Where was he? Was he safe? Enjoying himself? Did he think of anyone except the man he was with at any given time?
He shook himself and went back to his paperwork. No sense overthinking all this. He’d only drive himself insane faster than he already was.
A couple days later, Frank arrived in the club around ten in the evening. Raoul gave him a quick briefing, and at ten-thirty, Brandon walked in. His Stefan mask was well in place, but Frank could see he was tired, an uncharacteristic sluggishness in his movements. He turned to Raoul. “What’s up there?”
“Had a very early client.” Raoul wiped the bar vigorously, playing up his muscles in the extremely tight, white wifebeater he was wearing today.
“Three hours early?”
Raoul nodded.
Wow. Although Brandon did well in short bursts of energy, three hours had to be wearying as hell, and keeping a man under control and anticipating and then wearing him out? That sounded like a lot of effort. Frank admired Doms for that level of sustained energy they needed if they wanted to last in the business. Nick had had the same ability to pace himself and give everything without actually giving his all.
Frank pushed away from the bar and walked over to Brandon, who had taken a seat on a bar stool.
“Hey, how are you doing?”
Brandon nodded at him, then smiled. “Doing well, boss. How are you? Had a good evening?”
“Bizarre, somewhat.” Frank grinned. “Customer tried to pick me up. I wasn’t sure whether to punch him or laugh at him.”
Brandon laughed. “Either way, he has good taste.”
“I don’t know if I’d go that far.”
Brandon gave him a down-up leer, and then winked, but didn’t say anything.
“You seem tired.” Frank pushed up against the bar. “You going to be okay to work tonight?”
Brandon sat up a little straighter, as if he was ready to tell Frank that hell yeah he was okay to work tonight, but then he leaned over the bar. “Just need to wake up a bit. Hey, Raoul.”
The bartender approached. “Hmm?”
“Red Bull, please. In fact, make it two.”
“Can or glass?”
“Can, unless you’ve got an IV you can hook me to.”
Raoul laughed and produced two cans of Red Bull from beneath the bar. Then he disappeared, leaving Frank and Brandon alone.
Brandon popped one of the tabs. “Give me half an hour or so, and I’ll be fine.”
“I don’t want you pushing yourself that hard,” Frank said. “You need to be—”
“I need to have my A game, I know.” Brandon took a few swallows from the energy drink. “I’m good. Don’t worry.”
“Clients want more than someone running on fumes.” And I don’t want you out there with a john if you’re not alert and vigilant.
“So what do you want me to do?” Brandon finished the first can and eyed the second. “Take the night off? I need the money, Frank.”
“I do want you to take the night off. You’ve been here almost every night this week, and I know damn well you’re raking in plenty.” He arched an eyebrow. “You’re not in debt to the Mob or something, are you?”
Brandon laughed. “No, it’s nothing like that. But unless you want to become my civil partner so I don’t get shipped back stateside, I need all the money I can get.”
“I suppose.” Frank tapped his fingers on the bar. “But one night won’t make or break you. And besides, I . . .” He hesitated.
Brandon tilted his head. “What?”
Frank glanced around, checking for any ears that might be listening in. “I’ll buy you dinner. I think we need to talk.”
“Talk about wh—” Brandon cut himself off. “Oh. Right. I guess we never did have that morning-after conversation.”
Frank glanced around, but nobody was standing close enough to have heard that.
You’re trying to hide that he’s special to you from a room full of guys who make a living out of reading non-verbal cues? Really?
“Get your jacket.” Frank pushed away from the bar. “I’m in the mood for a pile of unhealthy meat.”
They walked out th
rough the main club, which, while it provided cover, was starting to irritate Frank. He should move to different premises, possibly further outside where rents weren’t skinning alive everybody but Starbucks, which didn’t pay tax. Small businesses didn’t really have that option. He’d think on it. The cash flow was there. And he could redecorate.
He led Brandon out the door, ignoring the glances Brandon got from men and women alike.
“Have a walk?” Frank asked. “I need to stretch my legs.”
“Sure.”
They walked for a while, which allowed Frank to put his thoughts in a row. Not that he hadn’t pondered it, but they’d got distracted by other things when they’d originally planned to have this discussion, and besides, it didn’t seem like a conversation he wanted to push for. This stuff should come up naturally.
They reached a hole-in-the-wall restaurant a bit beyond the usual tourist haunts. “You up for a kebab? Also, the waiters are very pretty and don’t speak much English.”
Brandon eyed him for a moment. “Sure.”
“Great.” Frank pushed through into the Lebanese/Arab fusion-type restaurant that maybe seated eight people and had surprisingly nice food beyond kebab. However, right now that was exactly what he wanted to eat.
The guy behind the bar indicated the far-away table in the corner. It was all small and cosy, and Frank felt a bit guilty for cramming Brandon into the space, but it seemed the safest place to talk.
Ordering was done quickly, from a comically badly translated menu, and then Frank leaned forwards.
“One thing first, Brandon. Apart from, thanks. Obviously. Thank you for coming out with me.”
Brandon’s brow showed that hint of a frown that Frank had learned to take as cautious approval. “It’s fine. Anything up?”
“No. I really just want to talk to you.” And let you rest. And feed you lamb and salad and stuff. “Of course, if you’re having second thoughts, that’s fine, too. Or if I’m behaving like an arsehole, then tell me.”
“I would.” Brandon relaxed somewhat and grinned.
Thank God. Whatever negative thing Brandon had expected, he didn’t expect it now.
“I’d like to see more of you. Not in the club.”
“There isn’t much more to see that you haven’t already,” Brandon said with a playful smirk.
Frank laughed. “Okay, fair point. But you know what I mean.”
“Yeah, I do.” Brandon’s expression turned more serious. He sat up, resting one elbow on the table and idly tracing the edge of his jaw with the tip of his thumb. “But, should we?”
“You tell me.”
Brandon fidgeted, lowering his gaze to the weathered tabletop between them. “Well, I probably shouldn’t be a prostitute, and I probably shouldn’t have bought a one-way ticket to London last year. But I am, and I did.” He looked at Frank through his lashes. “So I’m not big into doing what I should.”
“You do what you want.”
“What I want. What I feel like I need to do. Whatever calls to me.” He shrugged with one shoulder. “Sometimes it’s the right thing, sometimes it isn’t.”
“And us continuing what we started,” Frank said. “Where does that land on the spectrum?”
Brandon held his gaze. “I don’t know. I know I want to. Beyond that? I’ll let you know when we get there.”
When. God. This kid was so decisive and blatant.
“Then I guess my question is, what do you want out of this?”
Brandon was quiet for a long moment. He didn’t look at Frank. Didn’t really look at much of anything. “Are you a hiker?”
Frank furrowed his brow. Of all the responses, that wasn’t one he expected. “I’ve been known to hike, yes.”
“You ever just go out on a trail or head off in some direction and have no idea what you’ll find?”
Now that he thought about it, every actual hike he’d ever taken had involved maps, compasses, and destinations. Too many tales of people getting lost even in Snowdonia, which was nothing like the Rockies or wherever American hikers got lost and eaten by bears. “I haven’t, but I can see the attraction, I suppose.”
“That’s the kind of hiker I am,” Brandon said. “I just go. And most of the time, I find something really cool. Went hiking with my last partner once, out in the middle of nowhere in West Virginia. Six hours of some of the most god-awful weather on a shitty trail, and we found this gorgeous waterfall. Didn’t even know it was out there. We were both freezing cold by the time we got back, but it was worth it.” He finally met Frank’s eyes. “And I guess that’s how I approach things like this, too. Don’t think about it, don’t plan for it. Just do it and see what happens.”
“And what happens when you’ve been hiking through shitty weather for six hours and haven’t found any waterfalls?”
Brandon shrugged. “Then you turn around and go back, and you still got a nice walk through the woods with someone whose company you enjoy.”
Frank let that sink in, and he supposed it made sense, if you were the kind of optimist who expected to find a waterfall, or at least weren’t terribly depressed if you didn’t.
Enjoy every day, a therapist had told him when he’d asked her how people dealt with the fear of death.
“Now I’ll do my damned best to be that fucking waterfall.”
Brandon laughed softly. “I guess some treks get you onto a meadow and the only thing on it is a charging bull.” He winked. “Defending his territory.”
Frank lifted an eyebrow and was glad that the two plates of food arrived then, both with piles of salad and meat cut from the grill. “For the record, I don’t mind you working. If you want to do what you’re doing, I’d rather you do it at the Garden than on your own and trying to hide it from me.” Because then I still get at least the illusion that I can protect you and make sure you’re safe. “If you want to stop, let me know, too. We can always do something about that. Bartending, security. There’s other jobs.”
“Not as well paid, though.”
“No, likely not. But it does add up.” Frank tucked into his food, realising he was absolutely ravenous, which he actually couldn’t remember being recently. Probably because he never let it build up that long. Maybe the last few days in the gym had something to do with it. He’d been doing supersets and kept increasing his weights. Either way, he was starving.
After they’d eaten in silence for a few minutes, Frank’s stomach wasn’t growling anymore. He wiped his fingers on a paper napkin. “Before we go much further, there is still one other thing we should keep in mind.”
“Oh yeah? And that is . . .?”
“I’m making an assumption here, but I’m pretty sure I’m a bit older than you.”
Brandon laughed. “I’m forty-nine. What about you?”
A laugh burst out of Frank. “Forty-nine. I’m sure. And I’m twenty-one.”
“With a few years’ practice, right?”
“Smart-arse.”
“I’m twenty-five.” Brandon made a dismissive gesture. “So I’m plenty legal.”
“Plenty legal, yes, and obviously mature. But I’ve still got fifteen-mumble years on you.”
Brandon didn’t even flinch. “So did my last boyfriend.”
“You do like older men, don’t you?”
“I’m not opposed to men my own age.” Brandon leaned forwards on his elbows. “I mean, if you can call them that.”
Frank laughed. “They’re hardly boys.”
“Says a man who’s probably never dated a soldier.” Brandon broke eye contact and focused on spearing a piece of meat on his fork. “Like I said, not opposed to guys my own age, but I’ve always been more compatible with guys who are, well, your age. And no, it’s not a Daddy thing. I just . . . click better.”
Frank supposed that made sense, especially after Brandon’s previous partner had passed. It was probably difficult for him to find common ground with guys who were still at that age where they were immortal when Brandon himself
was all too aware of how fragile life could be. Andrew’s last couple of years had aged Frank at least a decade, mentally and emotionally if not physically.
Brandon chewed and swallowed. “Are you worried about people thinking you’re robbing the cradle?”
“I gave up worrying about other people’s opinions a long time ago.”
Brandon nodded. “Yeah. I know the feeling.”
Frank regarded him silently for a moment. “So I guess I wanted to clear the air. See where this was going, or at least what direction it was headed.”
“It’s headed.” Brandon smiled at him, then became serious enough to signal whatever he said next was not banter. “But it’s worth remembering one thing, Frank.”
Frank suddenly realised he really liked that very American twang in Brandon’s words, especially on “thing,” broadened just wide enough to make it sound affectionate. Then he shook his head and focused.
“I’ve never captured anybody on the field I didn’t want to keep around for a while.”
“Chris and Mike?”
Brandon chuckled. “Different field, and you know it.”
Notches on the marker. Conquests who liked to be conquered. Frank examined that thought. He’d been largely monogamous with Andrew—so much to discover, so much to cherish about him (and right now that thought didn’t hurt)—they’d fooled around when the situation came up, taken in a third a few times, at least until their “statuses” had become clear. Then they’d clung to each other as if terrified of the outside world, building a hard shell around them both. Part of the horror of Andrew’s death was that the protective layer that had shielded them both for years had been ripped apart, and Frank wasn’t sure how to cope with it. But if Brandon wanted his freedom—on this field or any other he chose—he’d cope. Time might come when . . .
Cart before horse.
“You sure hit all my buttons,” he muttered in a low voice.
“I know I do. And we’re gonna play, I promise you that. But maybe not tonight. I want to savour you.”
Frank chuckled. “Chewing through my thick hide is hardly ‘savouring.’”
“There’s a point where every man is tender as a spring chicken.” Brandon gave him that grin. “Just you wait.”