If It Drives (Market Garden, #7)(15)

Getting back into London was faster at this time of night, and parking was usually no big issue. He made it to Leicester Square without running over a single idiot tourist, parked, and found the place where his friends were already waiting, two of them with their eyes glued to their mobiles.

He walked towards them and waved.

Kim acknowledged him with a nod, and when he came closer, said, “Man, when are you gonna bring that big car out with us?”

“When I decide I want to get fired,” Cal muttered, and shrugged away a shudder. He didn’t even want to think about that f*cking car or its owner tonight.

“You suck.” Kim clapped his shoulder. “We’re just waiting on a couple of the guys.”

“Sounds good.” Cal leaned against the wall beside his friend and played on his mobile while they waited. He checked his emails. Checked his Facebook. Wondered about James. And the rentboy. And how sweaty and flustered they might be by—

“There they are!” Kim startled him out of his thoughts, and not a moment too soon. Cal made a subtle—well, as subtle as possible—attempt to adjust the front of his trousers and mask the effects of his thoughts of James. Great time to be wearing tight leather, naturally. At least he’d only just started getting an uninvited hard-on. Nothing a few thoughts of Margaret Thatcher in a negligee couldn’t remedy.

The stragglers in their group caught up, and Cal followed everyone into a pub. It was still fairly early in the evening by partying standards, so they made it to the bar without much trouble and ordered the first round.

There was an unoccupied booth in the back corner, and the group crowded into it.

Aaron, the group’s unabashed manwhore, craned his neck and raised his eyebrows. “Oh, hello . . .”

“Already?” Cal chuckled. “You’re not wasting any time tonight, are you?”

“Not when something like that just walked through the door, no.”

Cal looked. It didn’t take much to pick Aaron’s target out of the crowd. He liked the insanely muscled types who got as much of their size from a needle as a weight bench, and a meathead just like that was flagging down the bartender. The guy did have a nice arse, and he was probably hot when he wasn’t mutated beyond recognition, resembling the victim of a killer bee attack instead of a specimen of perfect fitness.

Sipping his beer, Cal looked around to see what else the crowd had to offer tonight.

Plenty of leather trousers, that was for sure. And some tight jeans. One guy wore some sort of sparkly skintight abomination that made his balls look like disco balls. He’d probably gone commando, too, and all Cal could think was whoever got him into bed tonight would be picking glitter out of his teeth tomorrow.

He made eye contact with a gorgeous blond in a tight black T-shirt. The clothes didn’t do much for him—jeans, T-shirt, blah, blah, blah—but that grin said come and get me. The arched eyebrow said I dare you.

Well, all right then.

Cal elbowed Aaron. “Excuse me, gentlemen.”

“What?” Aaron slid out of the booth to let him past. “Already?”

“Already?” Cal rolled his eyes. “You’re one to talk.”

“Yeah, but you don’t usually—”

The music drowned out whatever else he’d had to say, and Cal just batted his eyes, shrugged, and then shouldered his way through the thickening crowd.

“Hi,” he said over the music.

The blond grinned wider. “Hi.”

Cal gestured at the bar. “What are you drinking?”

The blond peered at the glass in Cal’s hand. “What’s that?”

“Doom Bar.”

“I’ll try one of those.”

Thank God, he’s not drinking London Pride. They exchanged grins, and Cal bought the drink. While they waited, he said, “I’m Cal.”

“Ethan.”

The bartender quickly served up the beer, and Ethan took Cal by the elbow. Cal wasn’t sure how he felt about being physically pulled, but . . . whatever. Beer and a potential piece of arse for the night. He wasn’t going to be picky about who did what.

They found a table off to one side, one of the last remaining as people steadily poured in through the front door. Cal took a long swallow of beer, and then focused on Ethan. “So what do you do?”

Ethan’s lips pulled back in a devilish smile. “Hot men, naturally.” He gave Cal a conspicuous up-and-down, and then winked.

Cal laughed, but something in his gut was starting to feel heavy. Ethan was cute, he’d give him that. And he had that come-hither thing going on. But he was, what, maybe twenty-one? Twenty-two?

Put a little leather on him, and he could pass for one of the rentboys at Market Garden.

That thought sent Cal into his beer. He took two deep swallows before putting the glass back on the table. Seemed his preference had shifted—narrowed, in fact, towards the upper end of his usual age spectrum, towards dark hair and a better dress sense. Ethan was not going to cut it.

“Long week?” Ethan asked, a little caution mixing with the mischief in his eyes.

“You could say that.”

Ethan drew back slightly. “So, um, what do you do?”

That heavy something grew heavier. “I’m a chauffeur.”

“Really?” That seemed to draw Ethan back in. “You just drive people around in a limo all day?”