On the Clock (Market Garden, #8)(54)

Tick, tick, tick, went the doomsday clock in his brain. Every minute Blake let slip by was one more chance for someone else to sweep Jason away forever.

And why the hell did that bother him so much?

He couldn’t even begin to tell himself it was because he’d grown to enjoy being with Jason the way he had with Tristan and Jared. They’d been hot, but this was something else entirely.

And as that panic inched its way to the surface again, he realized he needed Jason to know that. What Jason did with the information was beyond his control, but somehow, it needed to be said. Soon.

That night, Blake couldn’t sleep. He hadn’t been this restless in ages, tossing and turning as if he’d had a hit of espresso right before bed. The next morning, stuck in a meeting at work, he was exhausted bordering on catatonic, but he couldn’t sit still. In his office afterward, he couldn’t remember anything that had been discussed. Instead of focusing on his job, he constantly itched to get to his laptop so he could send Jason an email telling him . . . what, exactly? He knew what he felt—right?—but when he was in front of his computer, he’d freeze up. The words didn’t come.

Probably because they shouldn’t be said at all. Because he was crazy. And the minute he started typing or talking, Jason would know he was crazy.

Hell, maybe he needed to know that. But if Blake didn’t get this off his chest soon, he was going to go even crazier than he already had.

After two solid nights of f*cked-up sleep, he couldn’t take anymore. Before he went to work, he needed to say his piece, whatever that piece turned out to be.

On the couch where he’d watched all those dumb comedies with Jason, he opened his laptop, opened up a new email, and . . .

Froze.

No two ways about it—email couldn’t contain this conversation. Skype wasn’t right for it either. Maybe Newark International hadn’t been the place for an out-in-the-open same-sex kiss, but electronic communication wasn’t the place for everything he needed to say right then.

Without a second thought, he closed his laptop, went upstairs, packed an overnight bag and left, this time following the familiar route to the airport instead of heading into work like he was supposed to. He left a message for Deanna to say he wouldn’t be in, that there was something he “needed to take care of.”

With the Land Rover in long-term parking, he strode into the terminal. He’d never had much luck booking last-minute flights on the internet, so he hadn’t bothered this time. Instead, he went right to the desk, made the earliest reservation he could, and then called the office to make sure they could do without him for a couple of days. Chris, one of his business partners, grumbled about it, and Blake had no doubt he’d hear about it when he got back, but he’d make it up to everyone when he did.

First class and business class were both full, so he flew coach. Getting comfortable was a lost cause, and would’ve been even if the guy in front of him hadn’t reclined his seat in Blake’s face, and Blake hadn’t had to fight his own overnight bag for foot room while the other seat rubbed against his kneecaps. He’d have been twitchy and restless in the most luxurious seat in first class with a few shots of top-shelf bourbon in him.

It was a daytime flight, but he doubted he would’ve slept even if it had been overnight. He stared out at the darkening sky and the gray blanket of clouds beneath the plane while people around him slept, killed time on electronic devices, or tried to quiet children who were bored, tired, scared, or all three.

This was Purgatory at thirty thousand feet. Every hour that passed didn’t feel like an hour closer to Jason—every hour confined to this plane was another hour gone by without telling Jason how he felt.

You idiot. You should’ve Skyped him.

But even up here, as the clouds inched by and time seemed to be going backward, he couldn’t convince himself that this was something they could talk about anywhere other than face-to-face.

He rubbed his eyes and glanced at the screen up front that helpfully kept track of how far they’d traveled and how far was still to go.

Three more hours.

Fuck. The panic that had set up shop in his chest kicked into overdrive. Three hours, plus however long it took to get through customs, plus getting to Market Garden . . . and there was no telling if Jason would even be there.

He banished that thought. If he showed up and didn’t find Jason, then he’d deal with that at the time. For the moment, the only thing keeping him sane—relatively sane—was the goal at the end of this flight. If he let himself consider the possibility of failure . . .

To be safe, he made sure there was an air sickness bag in the seat pouch in front of him. Not that he’d ever had to make use of one, but as wound up and nervous as he was now, anything was possible.

He gave the screen another look.

Two hours. Fifty-eight minutes.

Fuck.



As it often was at Heathrow, the customs line for non-EU passport holders was much shorter than the one for EU passports, but moved exponentially slower. Blake was ready to nod off on his feet. By the time he reached the front of the line, he was pretty sure he’d been passed by a couple of snails riding a goddamned glacier.

Just as he was ready to lapse into an exhausted coma, the lady at the front sent him up to the booth. Finally.

The bored customs agent scrutinized his passport and landing card. “What’s the reason for your trip to the UK?”