Capture & Surrender (Market Garden, #5)(33)
Frank set the water glasses on the bedside table, then eased himself into bed beside Brandon, trying not to wake him up. He’d barely settled onto the mattress, though, when Brandon’s eyes fluttered open.
Brandon jumped, lifting his head off the pillow. “Shit. Did I fall asleep?”
“It’s okay.” Frank pulled the sheet up over both of them. “I mean, it isn’t like you’ve done anything physical today. Can’t imagine why you might be tired.”
Brandon laughed, letting his head drop onto the pillow again. “I’m always doing physical things.”
That comment slid under Frank’s skin. Always doing physical things? Yes, yes he was, and Frank was profiting off a good number of them. Hadn’t Frank sworn up and down he’d never date his rentboys? He wasn’t a stickler for monogamy or anything, but that seemed like a recipe for disaster.
In fact, everything about this seemed like a recipe for disaster.
But even if he was headed for the mother of all car crashes, he couldn’t bring himself to hit the brake with everything he had, not for his sake, not for Brandon’s sake, or Market Garden’s, or sanity, or morality, or because it wasn’t fair or even very balanced.
Seemed all he could do was grip the steering wheel and keep going until something stopped him.
Raoul gave him strange looks when Frank kept hanging around the bar throughout the next week. Yes, okay, he was spending more time at the Garden than he had in months, but he thought people were getting used to him again. Fact was, he did enjoy the bustle and the company. And getting Raoul to wait hand and foot on him was amusing too. The barkeep still likely expected the other boot to drop, and that was amusing in its own way.
He also enjoyed watching the guys work. There was flirting going on, groping, smiles, and flashed cash.
After barely landing on his own two feet more than once, he’d started Market Garden partly as a safe haven for rentboys, and he hadn’t really taken that much of an interest in actually being here after it was clear the place almost ran itself. Good staff saw to that. However, now that he was around more, he enjoyed it, started getting ideas maybe to move to a larger building, have more booths with more privacy, that sort of thing.
What he hadn’t quite worked out was how he felt about Brandon’s job. He enjoyed watching him hunt, watching him show off in front of businessmen who usually turned into clients within minutes. Then they’d leave, and Frank would push down the urge to imagine what Brandon was doing, how he was doing it, because it turned him on and he wanted to be there and then he didn’t—the emotions were too complex to parse.
Business was slow today. Right when he was about to get up and invite Stefan for a bite somewhere, though, a client did show up. It was one of Nick’s former clients, clearly at sea now that Nick was gone, and he naturally drifted towards Stefan, almost courting him with drinks and fleeting, probing touches. Frank studied the display. The guy was attractive, typical City type, looking stressed and in desperate need of pain.
The deal was sealed when Stefan took the guy’s hand off his chest and twisted his arm on his back, pressing in.
Frank shivered and rolled his shoulder. The negotiation that followed was quick and easy. Stefan whispered something into the john’s ear, the john nodded. Deal done. They were leaving.
Frank took a sip from his tea as he explored that ambivalent sense of protectiveness, a bite of jealousy, arousal in part, and the feeling that it wasn’t morally right to watch the guy he was sleeping with take on clients and not say a word. On one hand, Frank wanted to shield Brandon from the men who wanted to pay to use his body. On the other, that was the whole reason Stefan was here. Willingly, knowing full well what he was doing, and for Frank’s financial gain. Of course, it was Brandon’s decision whether and how much to work, and the last thing Frank wanted was to turn into a controlling sugar daddy.
Well isn’t this a f*cked-up situation?
Frank got up from the bar and went back into his office. There was paperwork to do, bills to pay, but he mostly wanted to get out of the lounge that was now devoid of Brandon’s gorgeous, predatory presence.
He’d barely dropped into his desk chair and started scrolling through his inbox when someone knocked on the door. Any distraction was more than welcome. “Come in.”
The door opened. Raoul leaned one shoulder on the frame and tilted his head slightly. “Mind if I sit for a minute?”
“Don’t you have drinks to pour?”
The bartender shrugged. “It’s under control.”
Frank gestured at the chair in front of his desk. Raoul took a seat, lounging in the chair and resting one ankle on top of the other knee.
“So how’s Stefan working out?” Raoul tapped his fingers on the scuffed leather of his biker boots.
“I beg your pardon?”
Raoul gestured towards the lounge. “Seems like he fits in here pretty well, eh?”
“Oh. Yes. Yes, he does. Quite well.” Frank eyed his bartender and long-time friend. “Where’d you find this kid, anyway?”
“Same strip club where I found Tristan.”
Oh, lord. Frank could only imagine the kind of spectacle Brandon could put on. That club specifically sought strippers with attitude. That was why Tristan had done so well there. That f*cker stopped just short of plucking a patron’s wallet out of his hand, helping himself to as much cash as he thought he was worth, and then making the guy beg for his lap dance anyway. Brandon probably wasn’t quite so in-your-face—few rivalled Tristan for that quality—but he would hardly have any patrons walking away from the stage with money left in their wallets.