“It’s not like that. Honestly. It’s just . . . too difficult to explain. Look, why not come round to my place tomorrow night? We can talk then.”
“It wasn’t talk I was thinking about,” said Graham with a grin. “But yeah, I could probably manage straight after work. Same place as before?”
“Yes. No, hang on.” If he invited Graham back to the bedsit, there was too much chance Mac would be hanging round outside. And whatever his head was telling him, his heart whispered that this was no longer just work. “Best come to my own apartment. It’s a bit more comfortable.”
“Yeah? Are you sure? I know you said . . .”
“I know what I said, but it’s fine.” He silenced any inner demons with a nod, gave Graham the address, and added, “About six-thirty, then?”
“Six-thirty’s fine.” Graham gave a small half-smile and finally turned away.
Jake breathed a silent prayer of thanks to the gods for listening for once. But when he turned back to the bar, the first face he saw was Mac’s. Judging by the raised eyebrows, his partner had seen and quite possibly heard, but he said nothing, and they went back to work. Jake still had no idea where Mac had been, but explanations would have to wait, because there was a sudden flurry at the club’s entrance where a small army had just marched in.
Closer examination revealed neither uniforms nor guns, but the way the half-dozen or so blokes surrounded one man reminded Jake at once of security details. His professional instincts kicked in. He nudged Mac with one elbow and nodded towards the door.
“Yeah. Looks promising,” Mac muttered down his ear. “I’d better not cramp your style.” And he vanished into the throng once more.
Jake felt a moment’s pure annoyance at being left alone, which was daft because Mac was right. If Warren saw a boyfriend or pimp in tow, he’d never take the bait. Jake had to look free and available. Of course, for that he had to make sure Warren noticed him first, which was by no means certain in the crowd.
He was lucky, though, because the leather night had come to the rescue. The T-shirt he’d felt so uncomfortable in stood out, a small island of white in a sea of black. And it seemed to work. Warren’s gaze swept the room, slid past him, paused, slid back. He muttered into a henchman’s ear, and the henchman shoved through the crowded dance floor in Jake’s direction. Jake took a slow sip of beer, swept his hair back off his face, and tried to look as free and available as he knew how.
“Sorry, I’ve just remembered I can’t make tomorrow.”
Jake actually spilled his beer. He hadn’t seen Graham, hadn’t heard him approach, all his senses focussed on his prey. “Bloody hell, mate, you made me jump,” he growled, wiping at the slowly spreading stain. The worst was on his jeans, thank God, where it didn’t show, but there was a wet splash on his T, pointing an embarrassing trail towards his crotch.
“Sorry. It’s just that it’s Sam—my son’s—birthday. Is Tuesday all right?”
“Tuesday’s fine, okay?”
Graham seemed to take the hint from the ferocity of his words and backed away again with another mumbled “Sorry,” that Jake only half heard.
He turned his head, hoping against hope that the interruption wouldn’t matter, that he hadn’t killed the deal; but the henchman was walking back again, and Frank Warren’s attention had moved on to someone else.
The silence was stony in the car on the way back, until they were parked outside Jake’s flat. Jake saw how tight Mac’s lips were clenched and how his nostrils flared and knew the storm was about to break.
Sure enough, Mac took the key out of the ignition in extra slow time and sat twisting it over and over in his lap. When he spoke, it was in the same slow time at first but gradually picked up speed and volume, which was never a good sign. “What. The. Fuck. Were you thinking about, Jake? Arranging to meet some boyfriend when you’re supposed to be at work? No wonder you wanted to go to the Blue Baboon. Talk about bloody irresponsible.”
“I didn’t arrange anything. It was an accident.” Jake knew he sounded unconvincing and shrill. “It might have bolloxed up the operation, but it was just one of those things. If it hadn’t been Graham, it could have been someone else—an old mate or someone trying to pick me up.”
“Oh, it bolloxed it up all right—three whole fucking weeks of hard work down the toilet because you can’t keep it in your pants.”
“Well, that’s hardly fair. I told him to get stuffed. He just didn’t go fast enough. And anyway, he’s not my boyfriend.”
“Maybe not, but you’re on first name terms with him, aren’t you? And out of all the clubs in town, you’re telling me he just happened to be in that one.”
Jake had had enough. “Yes. Out of all the clubs in town, he did just happen to be in that one. Coincidence, fate, call it what you like, but it happened. I might be gay, but I’m not an idiot, Mac.” He emphasised each word with a forefinger jabbing into his partner’s arm. “I don’t stuff up jobs intentionally.”
Mac didn’t reply, so Jake decided to follow up one attack with another. “And while we’re on the subject, where did you bugger off to? We’d only just got through the club door and you disappeared. I was left talking to myself.”
“I was doing my job, thanks for asking. Talking to people, asking questions, seeing if Frank Warren used the place and when he was likely to be there next. It’s called gathering information. I might not be gay, but one of us has to think like a professional on occasion.”
Jake felt his fist contract into a tight ball and knew if he stayed in the car a second longer he’d belt his partner on the nose. “I’m tired,” he said, opening the door and swinging his legs outside. “I’ve been working days and nights on this job, in case you haven’t noticed. I’ll talk to you in the morning.” He clambered out, slammed the car door, and headed for home, a coffee, and a hot bath without a backward glance.
By Tuesday evening, Jake was wishing he’d put Graham off. If he’d been tired two days previously, he was exhausted now; they’d redoubled their efforts to track down Frank Warren, and when he did get time to sleep, he couldn’t drop off. It didn’t help that Mac was still being a prat. He’d managed a terse apology for implying Jake was unprofessional, but beyond that, he was tight-lipped and quiet. Jake missed their banter, which had always helped him relax on difficult jobs, but most of all, he just missed Mac. Nobody else gave him quite the same support, nobody listened when he moaned, nobody knew how to gee him up with a joke. Nobody else made him feel he could go to them with the problems and dangers he encountered at work. What with the silence and the pavement-pounding, it had been an uncomfortable couple of days.
When Graham rang the bell at twenty-five past six, sex was the last thing on Jake’s mind. He’d spent the day with his head buried in Frank Warren’s tax returns (brought round in a battered folder by Mac at ten a.m.), and he’d had four hours’ sleep in thirty-six. What he needed was a quiet night in with a pizza and enough beer to ensure he lost consciousness by half past nine, which was hardly what Graham would want. Luckily, it seemed he wasn’t the only one not in the mood. Graham refused his offer of a beer and didn’t even take his jacket off.
“I can’t stay long; I’m on my way home. Monica . . . well, like I said before, she turns a blind eye, but only as long as it doesn’t muck up her plans. We’re having dinner with friends tonight, so I can’t be late.”
Jake wasn’t exactly planning on making a night of it himself. The only good thing to come out of their row the other night was that Mac didn’t seem to have recognised Graham as the punter in the car. He couldn’t rely on his partner’s continued forgetfulness, though, so he needed to avoid anything that might drop Mac a hint. Anything like being late for that night’s work, for instance, or turning up dead on his feet from too much sex. “That’s okay. I’m a bit tired myself. Been putting in some long hours at work.” He carefully didn’t specify which work, hoping Graham would come to the wrong conclusion about what he meant.
“Yeah?
Tough luck.” Graham wandered over to the plate glass window that stared out across the black canyon of the canal towards the city lights. “This really is a nice place—better than where you work. The view’s better, too.”
“That wouldn’t be difficult. I’ve never been that fond of brick walls.”
“Not even brick walls with a distant view of Selfridges?”
Graham was teasing him, and he wished it would stop. It was bad enough trying to keep that burn of attraction down to a constant simmer without him being so damned nice all over the place. He might look like Edward, but he was already proving that, in terms of personality, he couldn’t be less like Jake’s ex if he tried. “You can probably see Selfridges from here, too, if you squint hard enough.”
But Graham had turned his attention from the view to the rest of the room. Jake saw him take in the solid wood floor, the wide open spaces, the designer furniture—and saw the dawning realisation of cost. Teasing over, Graham pursed his lips in a soundless whistle and said, “What is this, anyway, the penthouse? The rent must cost you a fortune. No wonder you’re out on the streets.”
Jake didn’t deserve that, even if it was closer to the truth than he wanted to admit. “An ex of mine got the place for us a few years back and then took off with most of my savings. This seems like as good a way as any to pay off the bills. It beats slaving in an office from nine to half past five, at any rate.”
“Absolutely right. It’s what I do to earn a living, so I should know.”
Jake wanted to ask what he did, but a rentboy wouldn’t care. Show too much interest, and even Graham would begin to suspect. He swallowed the question, and the moment passed.
“That reminds me,” Graham said. “I wanted to say sorry if I interrupted something on Sunday night. You didn’t look very happy to see me. Were you working then?”
“Er, yeah.”
“Oh, well, sorry. Hope I didn’t put my foot in it.”
Jake shrugged. “That’s okay. You weren’t to know.” It wasn’t the most tactful thing he’d ever said, but he was too tired for tact. Payback for that “on the streets” jibe, he thought, then regretted it. Graham still thought he was a prostitute, after all.
“I, er, wanted to make it up to you, get you a present or something, you know. But then I realised I don’t know the first thing about you or what you like. It made it hard to choose anything, and I felt daft bringing flowers.” He smiled a tentative smile.
“Yeah, I can imagine.” Jake found he was smiling back in a soppy sort of way.
“So, was that your boyfriend then? The bloke who was walking towards you the second time we spoke?”
Jake cast his mind back. “Him? Oh, Christ, no. Just some punter. You probably saved me from a fate worse than death.”
The smile became a grin. “Let me make it up to you another way. How about a blowjob?”
“Um, yeah, okay.” People have some strange ways of making up, he thought. How was sucking Graham off supposed to help? He rubbed a hand over his aching eyes and lowered himself to his knees. But he’d forgotten how much Graham kept surprising him.
“Not me, you fool, you,” said Graham. “Looks like you need it more.”
This time the sex was good, if not exactly earth-shattering. Graham kept his fumbling to a minimum, and Jake was so keyed up that he came too soon, before he’d had the chance to savour the clinging warmth of Graham’s mouth around his cock. Once he’d got his breath back, he returned the favour after all, then lay back on the sofa and watched in a heavy-lidded haze as Graham tidied himself up and prepared to go.
“You off, then?” he managed at last, when Graham had buttoned his jacket and was hovering by the front door.
“Yeah, I’d better. I’ve got this dinner party, remember?” Graham wrinkled his nose. “I’m not mad keen, but they’re Monica’s friends, and I don’t want to let her down. I already feel bad about telling her I’ve stayed late at work.”
“She knows you’re gay, then, your wife?”
“Bi-going-on-gay, yes. I told her before we even got married.”
“And she doesn’t mind?” To Jake it was inconceivable that any life partner could be so unconcerned, but there was nowt so queer as folk, as the saying went.
“As long as I’m careful and discreet. She knows I love her. She’s had seventeen years for me to prove that much.”
“Yeah, but doesn’t she mind you using, you know, prostitutes?”
Graham laughed. “I’ve never actually asked, but I suspect she’d rather that than some long-term boyfriend to rival her. Paying for an occasional fuck doesn’t mean as much. Oh, I almost forgot. Thirty, I think you said, for a blowjob?” He grabbed his wallet and thumbed out a twenty and a ten.
Jake scowled, partly at the thought of not mattering much and partly in embarrassment at the talk of money again. “There’s no need for that. I’m not working tonight.”
“Don’t be daft. Besides, it’s the least I can do if I cost you a client on Sunday night.” He put the notes down on the table where Jake kept his keys and let himself out.
Jake just hoped that this time, Mac was where he was supposed to be, and not hanging round outside his front door. It had been a calculated risk inviting Graham here—one he suspected had ultimately paid off, but not one he wanted to try explaining to Mac.
The trouble was that it was getting harder and harder to keep work and personal lives apart, even for an experienced undercover cop like him. Graham was growing on him the more they saw each other, growing to fit like a comfortable old shirt, and he suspected Graham felt the same. All that talk of presents and flowers was hardly normal when it came to dealing with prostitutes. His short time on the streets had at least taught him that.
Long ethical arguments with himself would have to wait, though, because it was time he went back to work. Pausing only to shower the scent of Graham off his skin, he dressed in his usual rentboy gear, stuck a couple of condoms in a back pocket, and opened the front door. He was halfway out before the flap of paper caught his eye—Graham’s latest payment, wafting off the table in the draught from the door. Christ, not that temptation again. He stuffed the notes in a pocket, too, and made a mental note to shove them with his other ill-gotten gains when he returned.
Over the next few days, relations with Mac slowly thawed. Jake made a show of keeping his head down and of talking their options through at every opportunity. He also did the rounds of the clubs most nights but made damn sure he didn’t go home with anyone else. Mac seemed to appreciate the extra effort, and to make an effort of his own—twice he brought Jake breakfast, and once he took him out for an evening meal. They steered well clear of the gay quarter because they didn’t want to run the risk of being seen, and opted instead for a pub Mac knew, which served home-made burgers with their beer.
“I could get used to this,” Jake said, wiping ketchup from around his mouth and reaching for his pint.
“Don’t start expecting it every week,” said Mac. “People will say we’re going out together.”
Jake’s heart turned a hasty somersault. “That would bother you, wouldn’t it?”
Mac didn’t reply at first, just scraped at a stain on the table top with one thumbnail. “It doesn’t bother me what people think,” he said at last. “Half the squad already think we sleep together as it is. But it would bother me if I thought I’d got your hopes up.”
So Mac really was straight, and any dreams about the two of them getting together were just that—fluffy little fantasies that made him feel good about life. He sighed, but the disappointment cut less deep than he’d thought it would. However much he might have wished, he knew you should never shit in your own field. Mixing love affairs with work to that extent was begging for disaster; either work suffered because you were bonking all the time, or you fell out and work suffered even more. He shifted Mac into the compartment of his brain marked “No Such Luck.”
“Fair enough. Thanks for the warning.” This was probably the fi
rst and last time Mac would refer to it. For all the banter and chat, Mac didn’t say that much. Long, heart-to-heart confidences were definitely not his style. “Doesn’t stop me enjoying tonight, though, does it? Nice old-fashioned pub, good food, log fire . . .”
“All you need is a pipe and slippers, Granddad,” Mac said, but he softened the words with a grin.
“Believe me, when you’ve been on your feet as much as I have the last few weeks, even slippers sound good.”
“Yeah? And there’s me thinking you’d been on your back more than your feet.”
Jake punched him on the arm hard enough to make him spill his beer, and the two of them giggled like silly schoolboys while doing their best to mop up. The awkward moment passed, the angular quality of the last few days eased away, and Jake felt they were almost back to their usual selves. All they needed now was a breakthrough in the case.
The breakthrough came, but not when they were expecting it. After the waste of time the previous Sunday night, Jake had given up on the Blue Baboon and tried the other clubs instead. He’d had no luck; there wasn’t so much as a sniff of Frank Warren’s aftershave, let alone a meeting or a proposition. After a week of nothing happening, the inspector was getting fractious about the constant entry fees and made his displeasure known. Jake gave up on all the other options and went back to the one place he knew they’d seen Warren before.
His plan worked. Warren’s posse barged their way in soon after midnight with Warren himself in the middle again. Jake silenced a snort at the sight; to look at the bloke with his minions around him, you’d think he was president of a minor country, not a small-scale crime boss on his local patch. But work was work; he conquered the sneer and propped himself in an alluring pose against the bar, hoping his credentials would catch Warren’s eye. This time, there was no Graham around to muck things up, and even Mac was in the background, keeping watch from a balcony upstairs. This time, it brought results. Within minutes, the same henchman as before was dispatched to talk to Jake.
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