On the Clock (Market Garden, #8)(55)

There’s someone here who stole my sanity. “Vacation.”

“How long are you here?”

As long as it takes. “Three days.”

“Are you meeting anyone?”

God, I hope so. “Yes.”

“And this person’s name?”

Blake swallowed. “Jason.”

“How long have you known this Jason?”

You mean there was a time when I didn’t know him? “A few months.”

“And have you met him in person?”

I fell for him in person.

Fuck. I did, didn’t I? Of course he had. Why the hell else would he have stupidly blown off work and flown all this way?

Fuck. Fuck, f*ck, f*ck. Have I lost my goddamned mind?

Well, that went without saying. But he didn’t feel the slightest inclination to turn back and go home like a sane man would’ve. If nothing else, that doomsday clock had started ticking faster, and he was doubly certain that he needed to see Jason now and not a minute—

“Sir?” The woman inclined her head. “Have you met this—?”

“Yes. I have.” He shook himself and forced a laugh. “Sorry. I’m really tired.”

She eyed him skeptically, but then laughed as much as customs agents are legally allowed to and stamped his passport. “Welcome to London, sir.” She slid it back across the counter. “Enjoy your stay.”

“Thank you.”

He skipped baggage claim and hurried through the last gate. It was kind of ironic, sprinting past the Nothing to Declare sign. For the first time, he did have something to declare, but it wasn’t monetary or tangible, nothing he was importing or exporting.

All he had to do now was find Jason.





He didn’t bother checking into a hotel. Instead, he flagged down a taxi outside Heathrow, and directed the driver straight to the one place he hoped to God he’d find Jason—Market Garden.

The streets of central London were always snarled with traffic, and tonight was no exception. As the cab crawled through the congestion, occasionally darting down side streets and shortcuts, Blake stared out the window, not really focusing on anything, but trying to avoid the clock on the dash. He didn’t check his phone except to see if Jason had emailed him, which he hadn’t, and he definitely didn’t check his watch, which he hadn’t bothered to reset when he’d landed. His body clock was more f*cked up than usual thanks to the sleepless flight; he didn’t need to know how f*cked up it actually was.

The cab let him out in front of Market Garden. With his stomach in knots, Blake paid the driver in cash and didn’t wait for the change.

At the brothel’s front door, he halted.

What the hell am I doing?

Less than twenty-four hours ago, he’d been home, losing his mind over Jason, and now he was here. And . . . now what? How was this going to play out? Would Jason be here? Would he already be spoken for tonight?

Blake shook himself. He stepped back from the door and rubbed a hand over his face, his palm hissing over his five-o’clock shadow. This was utter insanity. He was Jason’s client, not his boyfriend. A john. A man who’d spent a hell of a lot of money to spend time with him, in and out of the bedroom—that was all they’d ever negotiated, and all this would ever be.

Except someone had forgotten to give him the memo, and now he was in deeper than he had any right to be.

How do you think this is actually going to end?

Sighing, he rubbed his eyes, a sleepless flight’s worth of fatigue pressing down hard on his shoulders.

But he hadn’t gotten anywhere in life without taking risks. Big risks. Risks that had cost him jobs, homes, dignity. Would being rejected by Jason be any more humiliating than when he’d crawled back to his mother’s house after the money ran out?

He hadn’t come all this way to turn around and slink back to New Jersey. And Jason was a reasonable, intelligent guy—surely they could have a civil conversation about this, even if the feelings weren’t mutual. Awkward, and maybe disappointing, but civil.

Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

And nothing lost.

But nothing gained.

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath. No, he wasn’t turning back.

Before he could talk himself out of it, he walked inside.

A few steps in, he paused. He had no idea how many times he’d been here. It had become familiar like his favorite coffee shop in Canary Wharf and that pub he loved a few blocks away from Piccadilly Circus. He knew the rhythm and the sounds and the faces, had memorized the décor to the point that he noticed if the tables had been slightly rearranged or if there was a new picture on the black-painted wall.

Tonight, it was like wandering into a place he hadn’t been in years. Returning to somewhere he’d never intended to see again.

He left his overnight bag at the coat check, and headed into the lounge, hoping with every step that Jason would be here, and also praying that he was far from here. At his flat, watching DVDs, relaxing—anything that wasn’t enticing another man to part with money in exchange for his company.

There.

In a booth at the edge of the room, long fingers around a mostly empty glass, Jason grinned and gazed into the eyes of a man in a flawlessly cut suit. Judging by the way the man squirmed, Blake hadn’t arrived a moment too soon. There was a familiar gleam in Jason’s eye—they were negotiating a price, and the man was nearing a figure that would guarantee him the night of his life.