If It Drives (Market Garden, #7)(16)

“Limo, yes.” Cal cleared his throat. “But just one guy.” Well, and whomever he’s picked up along the way. “I drive a rich banker all over the place.” Banker was the shorthand that everybody understood. Private equity managing partner was more of a mouthful. Even Cal wasn’t quite sure what it meant, only that James was buying and selling companies with investors’ money and took his cut from the profits. Something like that.

“Interesting.” The glint in Ethan’s eye made Cal’s stomach sink lower and lower. “So, when you’re off duty, do you still have access—”

“The car’s kept under lock and key.” Cal forced a laugh. “I’m afraid not.”

“Aww, damn.”

Besides, it probably already smells like sex tonight.

This was not going to work. Maybe it was the fact that James was back at home getting f*cked by a whore, maybe it was simply ennui, maybe he didn’t want to pull Ethan into his horrible mood, but he couldn’t do this. He just wasn’t up for fun and games. He wasn’t up for writing. He was useless. In that state, the best thing he could do was something that didn’t pull in innocent bystanders.

He rubbed his temples.

“Headache?” Ethan asked. Damn, he was cute, concerned, maybe worried by now. He really didn’t deserve a f*ck that was nothing more than Cal taking his mind off James.

“Yeah. Migraines run in the family. I think I’m getting one.” Cal stood. “I should go.” He cringed at the echo of what he’d said before leaving James’s bedroom. “I’m . . . I’m really sorry.”

Ethan reached for his hand when he walked past him towards the door. Cal paused, feeling shitty for the ruse, but not nearly as shitty as if he’d stayed for a f*ck-and-run. “Hey, you take care of yourself, okay?”

“No worries. Thanks, Ethan.” He made his escape and, once outside, sucked in the night air as if there had been no damned oxygen in that bar. Aaron was busy with the meathead, and Cal didn’t see the other guys, but he had no doubt they’d have fun without him.

He didn’t go home. Not yet.





Market Garden was packed compared to the place he’d left in Soho. Cal had made his way inside, passing through the strip club and into the lounge area behind the curtains, expecting any moment to be found out and told to leave, but they let him pass, and there . . .

Why the hell was he here? He’d ridden around for a while, wandering the streets of London aimlessly. Maybe it was just habit, but as soon as he’d turned onto a road that formed part of the route from James’s place to Market Garden, he’d automatically come here. He hadn’t even realised this was his destination until he’d arrived, and then he’d come in anyway. Why, he had no idea. It was louder and more crowded than the place that had overwhelmed him earlier, and given the clientele—men who dressed as expensively or more so than James—he’d never be able to afford to get laid here.

But I’m here now. And for some reason, I feel like I should be.

This was very much James’s hunting ground. Well, Cal wasn’t sure “hunting” was the word. More like shooting fish in a barrel. The rentboys were all hot, and there seemed to be at least one of every type Cal could imagine, all kinds of guys from twinks to brick walls. A couple of leatherguys hung out at the bar and didn’t appear to be selling anything, but admittedly, Cal didn’t have the experience to tell a whore from somebody who was open-minded about where the night might go.

He looked around and tried to get his bearings. There was the twink couple James had rented one night, and they were sitting left and right of a happy-looking banker type, flirting with him in between eye-f*cking each other.

A goddamned gorgeous barkeeper stood behind the bar, displaying a naked chest full of tattoos, mixing drinks with the faux-bored air of a barely tamed badass doing things way, way under his paygrade.

“You looking for somebody, kid?”

Cal turned around. Now they were going to tell him to get lost. They’d seen in his face and his gait and his clothes that he didn’t have the money to buy anything here—or at least no more than a drink. He could definitely swing one of those.

“Uh.” He cleared his throat, looking at the ripped guy in camos standing in front of him. The kind eyes gave him pause, and the American drawl sounded friendly. In his experience, the big guys were usually pretty gentle. By that logic, this guy had to be a puppy, because his physique was damn near scary. “It’s complicated.”

The American’s eyebrows rose. “Complicated? In here? Do tell.”

Cal shifted his weight. “I, well.” He glanced around, feeling more conspicuous and out of place than he’d ever been in his life, even though with his leather trousers, he probably fit in, at least visually. “I’m . . .”

“Do you want something to drink?” The American nodded towards the bar. “Sit down for a minute?”

Cal balked. “I’m not looking to hire anyone. Like that.”

The American smiled warmly. “It’s all right. I work security anyway, so I get paid either way.”

Cal relaxed a little. “Okay. Sure. You don’t mind?”

“Not at all.” He extended his hand. “Name’s Brandon.”

Cal shook his hand. “Callum. Most people call me Cal.”