If It Drives (Market Garden, #7)(17)

Brandon nodded. “You want anything in particular from the bar?”

“Just a Coke is fine. I’m driving.”

“All right. Grab a seat”—he gestured at an open booth—“and I’ll be right back.”

On his way to the booth, Cal wasn’t entirely sure what to make of Brandon. Nice guy. Really nice guy. Hot, too. And sitting down for a drink with a lost-looking client didn’t seem like part of a security guard’s job description, but he supposed the guy knew the rules.

Cal drummed his fingers on the table and looked around the lounge. So this was Market Garden. Bankers, lawyers, and prostitutes. All the people who screwed other people for a living, converging in one dimly lit place where the booze flowed and the tension was palpable. Some guy in a suit was getting squirmy and red-faced next to a grinning, shirtless rentboy. Another banker—Cal thought he recognised him, actually—was tugging at his collar and gulping as a guy in a suit and another in leather made out right beside him.

Tables obscured his view of a lot of couples—or groups—from about the chest down, but the reactions left little to the imagination. He could tell when someone slid his hand onto someone else’s lap, or when a guy was so hard he couldn’t sit still.

Brandon slid into the booth opposite Cal, startling him. He chuckled. “You all right?”

“Yeah.” Cal took one of the offered glasses. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.” Brandon watched Cal as he sipped his own drink.

“Do you, uh, do this often?” Cal asked. “Have drinks with clueless new guys?”

Laughing, Brandon shook his head. “No. But you kind of caught my eye. Looked like you could use a lifeline.”

A lifeline. That about summed it up, didn’t it?

Cal trailed a finger through the condensation forming on the side of his glass.

“You sure you’re all right?” Brandon asked. “Just your first time in a place like this, or . . .?”

“Yes and no.” Cal looked up from his glass. “My situation’s a little weird.”

“This is a brothel, Cal.” Brandon grinned. “I’m pretty sure there isn’t a ‘situation’ that hasn’t walked through that door a time or two.”

“Heh. Maybe.” Cal swallowed. “Okay, so here’s the deal. My boss comes in here all the time. I drive him here, and drive him home with”—he gestured around the club—“whoever he picks up.”

Brandon’s only response was a slight upward flick of a dark eyebrow and a quiet, “Okay.”

Cal reached up to rub the back of his neck. When had he got so damned tense? “Thing is, I think he’s coming here to self-medicate in a way. Like he needs something he’s not getting somewhere else.”

“Sounds like a lot of people who come in here.”

“I figured as much. But part of me is worried this is a self-destructive thing. And part of me . . . I . . .” Cal paused, swallowing hard. And then the words came out before he even realised what he was saying: “I want to learn to be the thing he needs.”

Cal’s heart stopped. Is that really why I’m here? God, what the f*ck am I doing?

Brandon looked at him, frowning very slightly—not disapproving, maybe just curious, or focused. Damn, hadn’t he read somewhere that part of the lure of prostitutes was that they listened?

Cal fidgeted uncomfortably. “I can’t afford the really high rollers, but the guys here know how to satisfy him. And I want to learn from them.” This wasn’t something he could have told anybody—not a friend, not family, nobody on the internet. Saying it helped a little bit. He’d tried to ignore the thought, had tried to get away from it, but now it was out there. What he really wanted.

Brandon glanced around. “Listen, I’m more of a security guy, but I might know somebody who can help you find what you’re looking for. Mind if he joins us?”

Cal shook his head. “No. Unless it’s one of . . .” The guys who’d f*cked James. He really didn’t want to hear from the competition. “One of my boss’s regulars.”

“Oh. I doubt it.” Brandon laughed. “Just a moment.”

He walked away, and Cal rubbed his face and head with both hands. It wasn’t so bad, not nearly as bad as he’d expected. Nobody had laughed at him or questioned him, and . . . oh.

He looked up at another towering guy, big around the chest and wearing leather and jeans. Forties, maybe? A little older than James? Definitely the salt-and-pepper type leather daddy. Hot, in a semi-scary kind of way.

As they slid into the booth, Brandon gestured at the man beside him. “Cal, this is Frank. He owns the place. Frank, Cal.”

Frank offered a nod and a curious glance at Brandon; it was very clear he was here just for Brandon’s sake. So, relationship guru? Super-top? What?

“I, uh.” Cal breathed out. “I know it’s weird, but I need to know . . . I would appreciate some help dealing with my boss.”

“Who’s your boss?” Deep, rumbly voice. Obviously English. Native Londoner?

“James. He’s . . . here once a month or so. Always wears a red tie and expensive cufflinks.” He absently gestured at his face and hair. “Dark hair, great body. About forty.”