Capture & Surrender (Market Garden, #5)(57)
“I’d rather put a nail gun to my head than watch that shit. No, correction. Put a nail gun to Simon’s head.”
“No dead celebrities. Living as the gay Bonnie and Clyde would mean I can’t run the Garden.”
“Spoilsport.” Brandon grinned at him, and every time he did that, something shifted inside Frank, some weight, or maybe his heart, or his whole damn collection of organs swapped places.
“Let’s see, you’re dating a guy in his forties, an ex-con with a gangland history and no education to speak of, a dirty old man who’s also working as a pimp, forcing hot young things to sell their cocks and arses.” He used an exaggerated tone there, because he had made peace with it all, though he didn’t add to the list the one thing that stuck inside him like something exceedingly pointy and cold. “At least you have youth and beauty on your side.”
“You’re not forcing anybody.” Brandon lifted an eyebrow. “Nobody at the Garden has one bad word about you, apart from Raoul, and I think he’s playing.”
“He’s working hard to pick up my slack most days. He should be assistant manager or something. What do they call these guys in retail? The ones who actually do all the work? That’s him.”
“It’s clever. You’re doing the strategy; he’s responsible for the tactics on the ground.”
Frank chuckled. “Well, I do have some big ideas.”
“Like?”
“Either a complete revamp of the club or moving somewhere outside. I was looking at a few places, but haven’t found anywhere yet. I’ll have to do some numbers, too. Can I afford the kind of place, should I borrow, or get some partners in . . .” Though he was pretty certain he could afford it. After all, he’d inherited part of the corporate communications firm Andrew had founded, and the other partners had bought him out. Add to that Andrew’s investment portfolio, and then life insurance and private pension payments, and Frank didn’t have to work another day in his life, never mind worry about what he ultimately did with Market Garden.
Brandon seemed keenly interested. “What’s it look like in your head?”
“There are some mansions out in the countryside that would have some more privacy. I think several of the usual clients would be willing to come outside of London for, you know, erotic adventures. Fantasies. Hell, even orgies. Probably more like a real brothel, so more problematic, potentially, but we can always still run it as a gentlemen’s club.”
Brandon nodded. “Bigger budget.”
“Much bigger. I do have the quality of staff, just the surroundings aren’t quite there. Or we keep the location for the moment as a club and open another one, outside, that offers . . . more.”
Stroking his chin, Brandon nodded again. “Could be a safer place for us guys, too.”
“How so?”
“Get a bigger location with some private rooms, and we don’t necessarily have to leave for hotels and houses. Service the guys right there in the club.”
“Good thinking.” Keeping his rentboys safe had always been a priority, and keeping them on-site where the bouncers and security could handle problems that arose would be helpful. Situations like the one the other night with Tristan and Jared, where a john got belligerent and refused to pay, were much more easily defused with a bunch of burly bouncers as backup rather than with the guys calling on a mobile and saying “Hey, we’ve got a problem.” Not every Garden employee had a mouth like Tristan’s and could threaten his way out of such a situation.
“I can hold my own with most guys.” Brandon picked at his food. “But I’ll admit, I’d be more comfortable if things were kept in one building.”
Frank’s gut twisted again. Keeping all the guys safe was a priority, but Brandon? He wasn’t even sure he wanted Brandon f*cking other men on-site, never mind taking them someplace else. That fierce need to protect him was too strong for Frank to be comfortable with that. He’d have to live with it, of course, and he’d never forbid Brandon from working as a rentboy, but he might develop an ulcer in the process.
He coughed into his fist. “Well, it’s definitely something to look into. Top priority is making sure you guys are all safe.” Especially you.
Brandon smiled. “I know. I’ve never questioned that.” He paused. “How did you end up running a whorehouse, anyway? I’m assuming you didn’t win it off a reality show or something.”
Frank laughed. “No, I’m afraid not. Honestly, I didn’t want someone else ending up like me.”
“Like . . . like you?”
He nodded. “There’s always been prostitutes in this city, and there always will be. And with all the shit out there that can infect these guys, and all the people who might try to hurt someone because he’s a prostitute, I wanted to start a place where the safety of the rentboys was first and foremost. So I made a deal with the owner of the other lounge, the one in front of the club, and took over the back half of the ground floor.”
“Really?” Brandon furrowed his brow. “I thought the whole thing was yours.”
“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.”