If It Drives (Market Garden, #7)(13)

The anger in Cal slowly simmered down, and it was replaced by a flurry of emotions he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Much as he’d known last night had been a mistake—one apparently worth apologising for with cash—part of him wanted to believe James hadn’t thought it was a mistake after all. That Cal really had done something or been something that James needed, not something he regretted.

That complicated things. A lot. Cal wanted to believe last night had been a good thing, but if it was, then what? Did they dare do it again? Did he dare hope they would?

Avoiding James’s eyes, he cleared his throat. “Will you be needing me any more tonight, sir?” Immediately, he cringed.

Right. That was the best question to ask right then.

“No, you can go.” James stepped out of the way of the door. “Good night, Callum.”

Cal shut the door, wondering when it had become so f*cking heavy, and heard himself repeat what he’d said on the way out of James’s bedroom last night: “Good night, sir.”



It took a few days for their routine to settle, and it was a full week before Cal had his head together enough to think about writing. He read instead. Crammed his head full of other people’s words, hoping that might squeeze out all those restless thoughts, maybe even crush them.

At least he and James had gone back to behaving professionally. The other night was over. They’d f*cked. It had been bloody amazing. But now they both needed to save face. Right?

Right.

He focused on being a good driver. They didn’t talk. He listened, half-disinterested, to James’s conversations on the phone, opened the door for him, closed it behind him, kept the car spotless and available. On his writing, he hit a productive phase about a week later, actually getting some work done for once, with most of it being good quality. So much so that he declined an invite from a couple friends from uni to hang out in London so he could get more work done. The thesis was progressing well, too. He had a solid outline and a decent twenty-five thousand words. He’d be done in a month or two if he managed to stay focused.

Not long after they’d returned to their normal routine, Cal felt a shift in James. Something like an impending full moon or turning tide. A kind of tension and restlessness. Cal knew what that meant, so James calling him on the intercom one Saturday night didn’t come as a big surprise.

“Could you get me into London tonight?”

“Yes, sir. When?”

“Half an hour? I’m going to Market Garden.”

And his heart sank.

What did you think he’d do? He’s been f*cking guys from that place ever since his marriage went south. You think you have some magical healing cock that will get him away from that place so he’ll . . . what? Fuck you and then go find a boyfriend or something?

“I’ll be there, sir.”

Hesitation. “I know you will be, Callum. Thank you.”

I know you’ll be there for me.

Cal closed his eyes and gently banged his forehead against the wall. Why are you doing this to yourself, James? Why the hell do you pay these guys? Why don’t you date and flirt and f*ck another banker and be f*cking happy?

He didn’t get it. James’s tastes couldn’t be so outlandish that he couldn’t find a consenting partner for it? Cal really struggled imagining James getting into something so freaky, so horrible, that he couldn’t find it in the regular dating pool.

Hell, I’d do it. Let me make you happy, James.

No, Cal. He’s your boss.

Your boss who tried to pay you for sex like one of his whores.

Gritting his teeth, Cal put his uniform on. Then he went to the garage, got the car out, parked it in front of the house, and stood beside it, waiting. It was his job. If that meant taking James to meet a whore—especially instead of being his whore—then it wasn’t Cal’s place to judge.

James emerged from the house, and Cal looked anywhere but right at him. He just had to wear that damned red tie, didn’t he? It was like a f*cking good luck charm. He always wore it when he went to Market Garden.

Cal curled his fingers at his sides, trying not to remember the way the silk had felt—cool in some places, body-warm in others—as he’d undone the knot and—

He banished the thought and stood a little straighter, setting his jaw as James approached. The man didn’t make eye contact. Didn’t say a word. He slipped past Cal and into the car, and Cal wasn’t sure how to feel about that. Hurt? Thankful? A little of both. Not that it mattered.

He shut the door and returned to the driver’s seat. Following the familiar route to Market Garden felt weird tonight. He knew every inch of this drive, but somehow it was alien and . . . different. The same place in another dimension, looking every bit like he remembered but thrumming with a strange energy.

In front of Market Garden, Cal went through his usual routine. Car in park. Cap on. Engine idling. Door open. Check out James’s arse while he—

No. Not tonight.

He didn’t even wait until James had disappeared into the club before he got back in the car and moved it to a parking space. Once he was out of the no-parking zone, he killed the engine, tossed his cap unceremoniously onto the other seat, and let his head fall back against the headrest. He didn’t bother reaching for his notebook. There’d be no writing tonight. Not for university, and not on that novel he’d be working on until the day he died. He didn’t even have to stare at the blank page to know the words weren’t coming this evening.