by L. A. Witt
“It is now. Other guy retired, I bought him out. But my focus is on the all-male side of things. Besides, the front is just a strip club. No prostitution going on in there. Gives the place a slightly more respectable appearance, I guess.”
Brandon laughed. “One way to put it. So would you keep that part running if you moved the club?”
Frank shrugged. “I don’t know. Probably not. That side seems to attract the really sleazy clientele, and I don’t want them anywhere near any of my employees.”
“Thank God for that.” Brandon nodded. “I’d just as soon not deal with some of the creeps I’ve seen over there.”
Frank bristled at the idea of any one of those fuckers laying a hand on Brandon.
“Something wrong?” Brandon looked amused. “You don’t like your own clientele?”
“Well.” Frank hesitated. “I’m . . . not a huge fan of the types of men who wander in sometimes.”
Brandon chuckled. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
Frank finished putting the leftovers onto plates, poured them each a mug of tea, and they moved into the dining room. Funny how empty and quiet the room seemed; it always did after an evening with Mike, Geoff, Emily, and now Brandon. Between the wine and their personalities, this place echoed with laughter whenever the group was here.
But now it was only the two of them, and the quiet tap of a plate being set on the table echoed off the walls.
In between nibbling on the ciabatta, Frank kept going back to their conversation in the kitchen. He hadn’t quite relaxed since they’d brought up the creeps who stuffed money into G-strings on the other side of Market Garden. Sitting across from Brandon, Frank suddenly had a hard time stomaching the idea of him being in the same building as those arseholes.
Of course Brandon was an adult. Though he had his vulnerabilities, he could take care of himself. He was one of the few Frank didn’t have to worry about when he left with a john, but he worried about him nonetheless.
“Penny for your thoughts?”
Frank forced a smile. “Penny isn’t worth much with the going exchange rate.”
Brandon laughed. “Well, I could ask for your two cents instead.”
“You could, yes.” Frank looked down at his plate for a moment. “I’m curious.” He folded his hands on the table and met Brandon’s eyes. “What are you planning to do? In the future?”
“Drive a flying car and visit the moon, hopefully.”
Frank rolled his eyes. He tried to look disapproving, but the kid knew exactly when and how to bat his eyes and make him laugh. “Okay, very funny. I’m serious. You’re working for Market Garden now, but do you have ambitions? Dreams?”
“None that I can really afford to pursue right now.” Brandon picked at his food and avoided Frank’s eyes. “This is a temporary gig, you know? Something to tide me over until I get a visa squared away and don’t have to sweat over money quite as much.”
“And if money wasn’t an issue? Then what?”
“The only thing I’ve ever really been good at besides bartending and the military, which I don’t want to do forever, is photography.”
“Really?”
Brandon nodded. “I had to sell my camera, though. When money got tight after I came here. But someday . . .”
“Think that’s something you want to do for a career?”
“If I can break into it, yeah. Definitely.” Brandon picked up his mug of tea and cradled it between his hands. “None of that photojournalism stuff. Just, you know, commercial. Custom shoots for people. Weddings, if I have to.” He sipped his tea and, as he set the mug down again, sighed. “One of these days.”
The solution’s so easy.
Frank flattened his risotto with his fork, played with a piece of broccoli. “I don’t really believe in waiting for things like this.” He leaned forwards, elbows on the table. “If that’s what you want to do, you should do it. If money’s the issue, I know somebody who’d fund that.”
Brandon frowned slightly. “Money is the issue.”
“Not for me.” I have more than I’m likely to be able to spend.
“You’d give me the money for a professional camera and all the trimmings?”
“If you need a reason why, call it a Christmas bonus or a loan or whatever. A birthday present, whenever you’re due.” Frank took a forkful of food and chewed thoughtfully. “We could drive to one of the tech shops and pick it up tomorrow, and you’ll get the various bits and pieces once you know exactly what you need. Filters, lenses, a computer to clean them up.”
Brandon looked surprised. “That’s not small money.”
“Beats buying you a car.” Frank set his fork down for the moment. “Or a watch or . . . I don’t know. I’ve never done that kind of thing. That was usually Andrew’s job.”
Brandon frowned. Frank only hoped he hadn’t just gone hand-to-hand with the man’s pride. But pride . . . after what they’d done, after what Brandon did . . . seemed like a waste of energy.
Say yes.
Brandon met his eyes. “Answer me one question?”
“Okay.”
“Do you want me working at the Garden?”
Frank swallowed the next mouthful of food and coughed. “Not in your current job, no. I wouldn’t mind if you were a barkeeper or a bouncer, or someone who sat in my booth staring at me adoringly . . .” He grinned and winked. “But I don’t think the bankers deserve you.”
But do I deserve you? That’s the question.
“I’m good at what I do.” Brandon kept looking at him intently.
“You are, yes.” Frank picked his fork up, put it down again. “But I think you’re too good for it. You . . .” Are so much more than a rentboy? Mean too much to me? “I hope every one of the guys working there eventually finds something better than that. Every last one of them. But you, I want to help you find something better. And once you have the equipment, you’ve got something.”
Brandon sat back, swallowing hard. “Is that really the reason? Or do you not want me sleeping with other men?” The question didn’t have the hard edge of an accusation, but it hit Frank in the chest just the same.
“I don’t own you. I don’t want to fence you in or—”
“Is this about what happened today?” Brandon tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly. “With Chris?”
Frank hesitated. “Maybe a little. Look, I want you to be able to do whatever you want. If you want to sleep with other men, I won’t stop you and I won’t hold it against you.” He leaned forwards. “Is it what you want to do?”
“I don’t—” Brandon cut himself off, and shifted his gaze away from Frank’s. “It’s not the most ideal job in the world, but it doesn’t bother me. And as for other guys, and the paintball games, it’s . . . it’s something I can live without.” He met Frank’s eyes again. “I’m perfectly happy being monogamous in a relationship. I actually prefer it that way, to be honest.”
“Oh.” Amazing how a single word could require so damned much breath. “Is that what you want out of this?” He gestured at himself and Brandon. “Just us?”
Brandon nodded. “Yes.”
“So do I,” Frank said. “But that’s not why I want to help you find the means to leave Market Garden. I want you to be happy, Brandon.”
“You’ve had it rough, Frank,” he heard from what seemed like the distant past. “Can you accept somebody smoothing things down for you a little at times, or have you battled so much that you simply can’t stop?”
Damn, Andrew, now I know exactly how you felt with me.
“There’s two of us here. We both need to be happy. And I don’t want you to feel obligated to spend money on me. Market Garden or not, I can take care of myself. I’m not looking for a sugar daddy.”
“I know you’re not. You’ve never asked for a thing. I’m offering.”
Brandon took another drink of his tea, and he rolled it around in his mouth for a moment before swallowing it. “Can I think on it for a while? Abo
ut the camera?”
“Of course.”
Brandon smiled. “Thanks. And I do appreciate the offer.”
Frank returned the smile. “You’re welcome.”
“It’s still fairly early. What do you want to do with the rest of the day?”
“As little as possible?”
Brandon laughed, which relaxed Frank even more. “I like that idea. We could catch a movie or something, maybe?”
“I’ll get my keys.”
Frank drove Brandon to work the next night. Seemed a little strange, driving his boyfriend in to play the rentboy for the evening, but such was life with a relationship like this.
They went in through the front door. Brandon disappeared into the back half of the building, where he and the other guys worked. Frank lingered out front for a few minutes, checking in with Raoul’s counterpart on this side of the wall.
While the bartender pulled out the inventory sheets so Frank could put in a liquor order, Frank watched the two female strippers dancing for a thin crowd of early-evening patrons. The place would probably be packed later. Bankers and lawyers and businessmen, oh my. For right now, it was the middle-aged men in middle management who’d probably put in the “honey, I’m working late tonight” call on their way here. Haggard, stressed-out men, drooling like dogs over the girls.
Frank was as protective of the women as he was the rentboys, but since the girls didn’t leave the premises with customers—and were generally escorted to their cars or bus stops by security guards—he didn’t have as much reason to worry for their safety. He could only imagine how many ulcers he’d have if he were sending Britney or Chloe off to parts unknown with these cretins.
The bartender handed over the inventory sheet, and Frank headed into the back. The bouncers opened the door for him, each offering a nod and a quiet “boss” before he slipped past them.
The crowd in here was still light too. Half the clientele for the night was likely en route, or getting ready to wrap up at the office, but some had gotten an early start.
And Brandon—Stefan, at the moment, wearing a name that had a whole different meaning now—was already in a shadowy booth with a guy in a white shirt and dark tie. The guy’s hand was in Brandon’s lap beneath the table, which made Frank’s gut tighten. Jealousy? Protectiveness? He didn’t even know anymore.
You so much as look at him cross-eyed, I will break you in half.
He quickly took the inventory papers and headed into his office, hurrying past the booths before Brandon saw him and ignoring a greeting from Raoul. He’d apologise for that later. Right now, he just needed to get the fuck out of here.
Though once he’d closed the door behind himself, he realised too late that this place didn’t offer much protection. He remembered too well being tied up and on all fours while Brandon fucked him. The two hundred quid had really been a joke in that context, but damn if that fuck hadn’t very nearly broken him. Tension jumped up into his throat, crystallised in a heavy lump, and didn’t budge.
He’d meant it. He would not pen Brandon in. Would respect his choices.
“So what are you going to do, Frank?” Andrew had snarled. “Break my neck? That’s not really a challenge for you, is it?”
Andrew. God, Frank had been such an arsehole to him when they’d started dating. When Andrew had gotten under his thick skin and confronted him with all the poison he’d stored up inside, invariably pressing into old wounds that weren’t nearly healed. This row hadn’t even been about anything specific—nothing Frank could remember.
Andrew must have felt like he was taming a wild bull half the time, because Frank had been so resentful of the man’s education, money, smooth manners. He’d never expected them to get anywhere as a couple. At least not outside the bed.
But with much patience, Andrew had gotten him to a point that was halfway civilised.
Didn’t mean the old Frank didn’t sometimes rear his ugly, square head, ready to knock down walls and punch anybody who provoked him and ran too slowly.
He put the papers down on the desk, tried not to go back and see if Stefan was already leaving with the client. Or whether he could make up some reason to interfere.
It’s his decision.
“Why are you doing this?” He’d asked Andrew once, when the man had faced him down over something stupid and inconsequential Frank had been upset about.
“I think you need to be protected from yourself at times.”
Still true. He was a better man now, settled, not angry and bitter anymore. That anger’s red-hot core had cooled, and when he examined it now, it didn’t really seem much like anger at all. Protectiveness could look very similar and was one of his better traits. And he still couldn’t force it on Stefan.
Or Brandon, who hadn’t accepted his help, likely never would, and maybe that was pride, or independence. Maybe, as a Dom, Brandon chafed at the idea of owing him anything. Brandon did things on his terms, and normally Frank liked that in people. He respected the willingness to go through a wall if need be. Andrew’d had that in spades.
And after all the shit he’s been through, you’re going to saddle him with your aging carcass and your hang-ups and your battle scars and the time bomb ticking in your blood?
Frank sighed and rubbed some stiffness out of his neck. For all that he wanted to protect Brandon, just being together would eventually hurt him. They took precautions, but the fact remained that Frank was infected. And unless science had an earth-shattering eureka moment in the next few years, this would eventually kill him. Frank had already watched Andrew wither away. No one should have to watch someone go through that. To make Brandon watch two lovers in a lifetime die like that? Inhumane.
Closing his eyes, Frank continued kneading at his stiffening neck. He could buy all the camera gear Brandon wanted. Help him get a visa by whatever means necessary. Give him whatever he needed to get out of this line of work. But the one thing Frank couldn’t protect Brandon from was him. Not as long as they kept doing this.
The kid had been through enough hell, had gone across an ocean to lick his wounds and start over. Frank couldn’t put him through that again.
Which left one option.
Frank opened his eyes. His legs felt like lead as he started towards the door. He went back out into the lounge.
Stefan and the john he’d been seducing earlier were gone. Frank didn’t let himself think of where they were or what they were doing. He tried not to, anyway. Easier said than done.
“Hey, boss.” Raoul eyed him over the bar. “You all right?”
“Yeah.” Frank gestured at the colourful backlit bottles of top-shelf liquor. “Pour me a double.”
Raoul didn’t move. “Uh, boss, are—”
“I’m not one of the boys.” Frank tapped his fingers on the bar. “Give me a bloody drink.”
“All right, all right.” Raoul poured the drink and handed it to him.
Glass in hand, Frank nodded towards the back. “I’ll be in my office.” He took a step, but paused. “When Stefan comes back, tell him to come see me.”
Stefan. Not Brandon. They shouldn’t have crossed that line in the first place. Raoul shouldn’t have brought him in. Frank shouldn’t have made him part of his life. Learned where the name Stefan came from. Introduced him to his friends. Maybe asked their approval. And received it.
“So, if that matter comes up, I’m claiming that best man spot before Mike snags it.”
Oh, Geoff.
Frank dropped into his chair, feeling sixty or seventy years old all of a sudden. Old, tired, and ill to his heart, ill to his stomach, and worse, to his soul.
You want to protect him? This is how you do it.
Once the whiskey was gone, he desperately craved another, to take the edge off, to numb himself, though he despised drunks and hated the loss of control. With his looks and easy manner, Brandon would find somebody else. Somebody like Chris, or hell, any man out there with a pulse. Closer to his age, healthy, and with more
good years in him. Nobody would suspect him or treat him like a leper. No longer guilty—or diseased—by association.
He put his elbows on the desk, ran his hands through his hair. The rasp reminded him of Brandon’s fingers on his scalp, which didn’t help at all.
Being alone wasn’t so bad. He’d managed before. He had friends who’d stand by him. Things to occupy his time. Market Garden, staying healthy. Exercise. After Andrew, that was it. Most people were lucky to find love once. Twice? Once was a lot. He could cope. There was more to life than sex.
He wiped over his face and shook his head, trying to psych himself up, to take all the invisible weight he’d shed in the last few weeks back onto his shoulders. It was a blessing not to have to carry that for a while, but now that rest period was over, and he should just get on with it.
It’s a good look on you.
Damn you, Geoff, so I was happy there for a while.
Frank resisted the urge to go get another drink and instead forced himself to focus on paperwork. Even the minute shit he didn’t need to worry about—bills that weren’t due for a couple of weeks, the liquor order that could wait until tomorrow—was, though tedious, better than staring at the door and waiting for Brandon to show up. For all he knew, Brandon wouldn’t even be back in this evening. Could be a late night with the john, and by the time Brandon swung by, exhausted and bleary-eyed, to drop off the money, Frank would already be home and asleep. Well, in bed and staring at the ceiling, but probably not asleep. He didn’t see that happening any time soon.
A light knock at the door made Frank jump, and sent a couple pages of invoices fluttering to the floor. He leaned down to pick them up. “It’s open.”
Brandon. No, Stefan.
He closed the door behind him. “Raoul said you wanted to see me?”
Frank nodded. He stacked the papers into some semblance of neatness, if only to occupy his hands. “Have a seat.”
Brandon hesitated. “Is, um, something wrong?”
Everything, Brandon. “We need to talk about a few things.”
Brandon took a cautious step towards the vacant chair. “We as in you and Brandon? Or you and Stefan?”