If It Flies (Market Garden, #3)(3)

“Let’s go.” Percy beckoned to Spencer and strolled towards that blacked-out door like he owned the place.

Now his heart quickened, and he wondered if he should grab Percy, ask him to wait, and order himself a glass of liquid courage before he started traipsing into guarded, darkened back rooms in a bar full of prostitutes.

I should’ve just gone to the gym tonight.

One of the bouncers saw them coming and stepped in front of the door. A swell of panic almost stopped Spencer in his tracks, but instead of warning them away, the bouncer pulled open the door and gave them a “go on” gesture.

Even if the windows hadn’t been blacked out, there wouldn’t have been much light coming from the room on the other side. It looked like a huge, dark void, forbidding but attractive, pul ing him in like the black hole it resembled.

The door shut heavily behind them. Percy pushed aside a thick curtain. And beyond the portal: the men of Market Garden. They all wore black leather in various configurations, though most went for leather trousers with either a skin-tight black T-shirt or a bondage harness. And no two guys were 8

alike. Twinks. Bodybuilders. Girly boys. Guys who looked like they’d escaped a Goth convention with free mascara.

One guy in particular immediately caught his eyes. Slim, wearing low-riding leather trousers that revealed chiselled groin lines, and Spencer couldn’t decide what he wanted to touch more—the bulge in the guy’s trousers or the two pierced nipples that he displayed proudly without a T-shirt or so much as a harness.

“You look like you’re in a supermarket in front of fifty types of orange juice,” Percy whispered to him. “Definitely a membership for you. You can try them al .”

Spencer pulled at his tie. It was getting hot in here. “Not sure how I—” he managed to bite the rest of the sentence off before it escaped. How I feel about f*cking a guy you f*cked.

But it didn’t really matter, did it? Would he rent a car that Percy had rented before him?

Probably.

The guy in leather was just turning away with a laugh from a friend wearing a chainmail shirt.

“Drink?” Percy asked.

Best way to shed Percy, however briefly. The man’s peanut gallery comments were a serious distraction, never mind the potential for embarrassment. “Sure.”

Percy vanished in the gloom towards the bar, and Spencer watched the guy in leather for a minute or so. He must have been in his early twenties. Not quite a twink, but that lean build suggested a dancer or something. The guy couldn’t weigh more than sixty, sixty-five kilos. No, he hadn’t looked at profiles on Grindr too long. You could just tell the guy didn’t have a spare kilo on his frame. Maybe he was a go-go dancer rather than a rentboy?

9

The guy looked at him, and a smile curled the corner of his mouth.

And then he came walking over.

Not walking. Sauntering. Hell, he was strutting.

And looking Spencer up and down like he was sizing up a rental instead of being the merchandise on display.

A little too close— oh God, come closer—he stopped.

Spencer was almost a head taller, but couldn’t shake the feeling that the leather-clad almost-twink was looking down at him. He wasn’t intimidating, per se, he just radiated a cockiness that tightened Spencer’s balls.

Spencer cleared his throat. “Um . . . hello.” Good thing nobody expected a client to come up with a pickup line.

Though that one had been exceptionally lame.

“You got a name?” Direct. No surprise there.

He considered a fake name, but what the hell? Another quiet cough, and he said, “Spencer.”

“Nick.” With a faint smirk, Nick nodded towards the bar on the opposite end of the shadowy room. “You look like the kind of guy who could buy me a drink.”

Spencer’s breath tangled up somewhere in his airway.

“I . . . excuse me?”

An eyebrow lifted. Not judgmental and telepathic like Percy’s always was. Purely challenging. A thin curve of “You heard me.”

“Look, I’m . . .” I’m sounding like an idiot already. Guess this isn’t much different from the dating scene. “I’ll be honest here. I’m new to this.”

“I know. I’ve never seen you here before, and you look lost.” Nick quirked his eyebrow again. “Your dad didn’t bring you here to lose your virginity, did he?”

10

At that, Spencer laughed. Well, that was something: he was breathing now. “No. Not quite. But I’ve, um, never done . . . this.”

“What? Had an awkward conversation with a prostitute in a whorehouse?” No smile cracked his lips, but Spencer could tell Nick was enjoying this. Immensely.

“Something like that,” Spencer muttered. “So, how does this work, exactly?”

“Well.” Nick tossed his head to get that blond fringe out of his eyes. “You buy me a drink, it’s a fiver. You want to lick it off me? It’s a hundred.”

Holy. Fuck.

Nick brought up a hand—long, fine fingers—and arranged his unruly fringe as he casually added, “And it just goes up from there.”

“Based on the number of drinks?”

“Based on the number of licks.”

Spencer blinked. This kid really knew how to catch a man off-guard, didn’t he? Getting his wits about him, he said, “And if I want you to lick it off me?”