If It Drives (Market Garden, #7)(58)

God, he was making himself nauseous.

The drive itself was pretty short—thankfully, because the guys in the seat were bantering. About the women there. What Patrick had heard. Who else went there. Shit like that.

When he opened the door for them outside, Patrick turned to James. “What about . . . Calvin, was it?”

James looked at Cal. “What about him?”

“He could join us. Whether he’s sitting outside or inside . . .” Patrick shrugged and grinned at Cal with that “I had three cocktails and think it’s a great idea to let my superiority hang out by being extra nice to the sentient furniture” expression. “Come on, Calvin? Kevin?”

Cal cleared his throat. “Not interested, sir.”

“Why not? You could have an alcohol-free drink. No need to worry.”

“I’m gay, sir.” Cal met the man’s gaze and didn’t back down.

Patrick’s expression hardened, and the faintest disgust flickered at the corner of his tight lips. “Very well, then.” He turned to James.

James cleared his throat. “I’ll text you when we’re finished here.”

Cal nodded. “I’ll be waiting, sir.”

Patrick and James turned to go, and Cal rolled his eyes. Wankers. Then he got into the car and drove off to find a place to park for the next couple of hours.

Well, that explained the straight strip club. It was obviously Patrick’s preference, and the customer was always right, wasn’t he? Though Cal didn’t imagine that James was exactly suffering through the strip shows and lap dances and whatever else. He did like women, after all.

Sitting there in the darkness, Cal drummed his fingers on the wheel and thought back over the last year. James had brought plenty of men home. Usually Market Garden rentboys.

No women, though. Not once. The only times he could remember women getting into the car, they were colleagues or clients, and he knew for a fact nothing happened during those drives.

Maybe James couldn’t deal with women while he was still reeling from his divorce. And that, Cal realised, underscored why he had no business getting involved with the man. If he was still so hung up on his wife he couldn’t even look at another woman, and too f*cked up in the head to spend the night with a man he couldn’t send away with a few hundred quid in hand, then Cal didn’t want any part of him.

Then why the f*ck did it still hurt just thinking about the way James had submitted to him? That easy surrender that almost reminded him of Spencer with Nick?

James had fought Nick. He’d fought him hard enough for Nick to remember him. Remember what a handful he was. But he wasn’t that way with Cal.

“I hired Nick.”

“You hired both of us, James.”

“Not for . . . not for this.”

Cal closed his eyes and shook his head. It had been in the heat of the moment. In that state, James probably would’ve said “I love you” if they’d pushed him hard enough. Didn’t mean it was true.

Just a little more time. Then another driver would take Cal’s place, and he could move on.

And that day couldn’t get here fast enough.



Cal was dozing in the driver’s seat when his mobile vibrated on the dash. He blinked a few times, then grabbed the phone.

We’re done here.

He sent back, Be there shortly.

Both men were in great spirits—probably from consuming great amounts of spirits—when Cal pulled up. He held open the door and kept his expression neutral as Patrick poured himself into the back of the car.

Puke in my car. I dare you.

James hesitated at the door. He was drunk, but when he met Cal’s eyes, he seemed to sober a little. “Is everything all—”

“We should get you home, sir.” Cal kept his tone level and neutral, bordering on terse. “It’s nearly one, and you’ve got a meeting tomorrow morning.”

James didn’t move. He wavered a little, probably off-balance from the booze. “Callum. Talk to me.”

“You have a client with you, sir.” Cal wished like hell he’d worn the sunglasses in spite of the darkness. “We should go.”

After another moment of hesitation, James slid into the car. As Cal got into the driver’s seat, he realised he hadn’t asked where they were going, so he grudgingly rolled down the privacy screen, which let in their loud, booze-scented laughter.

“Sir,” he said over them. “I’m sorry, I forgot to ask. Where are we going?”

“Oh. Right.” James turned to Patrick. “Where’s that place you’re staying again?”

Patrick made an animated gesture with a glass—oh, f*ck, they’ve got into the champagne, haven’t they?—and said, “Over on . . . what’s that street? Stratford Street? The May Fair Hotel?”

“Right. Yes.” James met Cal’s eyes in the mirror. “Take us to Stratford Street. The May Fair.”

It was actually on Stratton Street, but whatever. “Will do, sir.” Cal started to roll up the privacy screen, but made the mistake of glancing back one more time. He caught James’s eye, and once again, James seemed to sober a little.

Then the screen blocked Cal’s view, and he’d never been so thankful for that. He shifted the car into gear and, gritting his teeth and holding the wheel tighter than necessary, took them back to Patrick’s hotel. He didn’t let himself imagine what might be going on behind the screen. He didn’t want to know. It wasn’t his concern anymore, no matter how concerned he still was for James and how much he wanted to leave Patrick on the side of the road, take James home, and tuck him into bed like he’d done in the days before things had got weird.