If It Drives (Market Garden, #7)(12)

Fifties. He didn’t see a lot of those. Shops didn’t like them and reacted suspiciously.

Three hundred.

That was way, way too much money for compensation for a couple hours. It was even too much for a tip or thank-you. This? That amount bought sex, and probably pretty good sex, too.

Now he wished he hadn’t looked. The nervous feeling in his stomach had turned into full-blown nausea. Here he’d been worried he’d left James high and dry when he’d needed something from him, but he hadn’t expected to be a bloody commodity. His paycheque was for his arse in the driver’s seat, not in James’s bed.

Was this how much James paid the rentboys at Market Garden? Had this money been earmarked for . . . who was it he’d been looking for last night? Nick? Or maybe Nick earned more than that. He was a professional, after all. Not the afterthought hooker waiting on the kerb when James couldn’t find what he’d wanted in the—

Stop. Just stop.

He rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. He silently begged James’s colleagues or clients or whoever the f*ck he’d been meeting to just wrap this up, finish the nightcaps, and go.

At a quarter past one, the restaurant’s glass doors opened for the hundredth time. Cal sat straighter as three men emerged, jackets over their arms, one of them gesturing animatedly while James and the other guy laughed. They were all steady on their feet, but had enough of a swagger to tell Cal they’d been drinking. Big surprise.

At least James wasn’t shitfaced. Not that he would’ve been Cal’s problem anyway. He could sleep it off in the goddamned foyer. Or the back of the car, for that matter, since he wasn’t prone to being sick when he was drunk.

The men shook hands and parted ways as Cal pulled up beside the kerb. He put the car in park, grabbed his cap, and after a moment’s hesitation, picked up the envelope as well.

“Right on time, Callum.” James grinned. His steps were a little uneven, and his eyes were red and glazed; yeah, he’d definitely put a few away tonight.

Cal offered an icy smile. Instead of opening the car door, though, he held out the envelope. “I believe this is yours.”

James eyed the envelope. “What is—isn’t that what I gave you earlier?” He waved a hand. “It’s yours, Cal.”

Don’t f*cking call me that.

Cal gritted his teeth and thrust the envelope at James. “No, it’s not. I don’t want it.”

James didn’t take it. He locked eyes with Cal. “But it’s—”

“I am not your whore,” Cal snarled before he could stop himself. “Take back your f*cking money.”

James’s eyes widened. He drew back as if sobering up right there and then. “My . . . no, that’s not . . .”

Cal took James’s wrist, shoved the envelope into his hand, and let go. He turned away and opened the door. “Home, sir?”

“I, uh . . .” James glanced back and forth from the envelope to Cal, but Cal refused to look him in the eye. He’d felt ill about the money all evening, but standing here now in front of James, he was furious.

Just get in the goddamned car before I say anything else and get myself fired.

Or I f*cking quit.

Without a word, James slid into the car. Cal slammed the door with more force than was necessary. Petty, perhaps, but it meant less anger that would come out as road rage.

All the way home, he kept throwing glances at the privacy screen. At first, he just kept looking to make sure it was still closed. God, please, let it stay closed. Then he was trying to shoot daggers through it with his eyes. Three hundred quid? Fucking really? And then he was back to hoping the thing stayed closed.

He pulled up in front of the house, stomach still knotted with that queasy-angry feeling. He put the car in park, but didn’t get out immediately. Closing his eyes, he gave himself a quick pep talk: Get out, see him out of the car, put the car away, and go home. Fast and easy. Just like—

Stop it.

He took a deep breath, put his shoulders back, and stepped out of the car. When he opened James’s door, he kept his gaze straight ahead, not looking right at James and sure as f*ck not staring at his own feet like a scolded kid. He had nothing to be ashamed of.

James stopped when he was out of the car, and he stood just behind the door, making it impossible for Cal to close it without hitting him. Which, Cal had to admit, was mildly tempting.

And in his hands was that damned envelope.

“Callum.” There was a hint of last night’s James in his voice. Subdued, a little uncertain. “I, um, wanted to apologise.”

“You did earlier,” Cal growled. “When you gave me the money.”

“Right. Yes. I did.” James exhaled. “But I didn’t realise what I was implying when I gave it to you. I didn’t . . . that wasn’t my intention at all.”

Cal narrowed his eyes and looked right at James. “You paid me for a night of sex. What was your intention if not to pay me for—”

“I didn’t mean it that way at all.” James shook his head. “Look, I’m sorry. I felt like I’d taken advantage of you last night. Like I’d abused my position, and I didn’t know how else . . .” He trailed off, lowering his gaze and biting his lip. “I’m sorry, Callum. That’s really all I can say. I never intended to make you feel like a whore, and I’m sorry for that.”