On the Clock (Market Garden, #8)(58)

Standing here in the alley behind Market Garden, he turned the prize watch over and over in his hand. In the pale light from above, the gold was dull, as if someone had switched it with a half-assed fake, a Fauxlex that couldn’t fool the most gullible of buyers. It was heavy and cold now—the faint warmth from Jason’s hand had vanished so quickly, it was as if he’d never touched the watch. As if he’d never been out here at all.

Blake closed his eyes and rested his head against the bricks.

So that was that.

The weird internal doomsday clock that had accompanied him across the ocean was gone now. In its place was a ball of lead. It didn’t hurt yet, but it would. Like anesthesia that hadn’t yet worn off, the numbness kept most of the actual pain beneath the surface, but it was coming.

It wasn’t the first time he’d walked away empty-handed from Market Garden. Some nights, there was no one there who piqued his interest. And he’d been disappointed before when rentboys he’d enjoyed were no longer there—Jared and Tristan had been an especially tough act to follow.

The very first time he’d come to Market Garden, he’d been reeling from a breakup, and he’d been searching for something to distract him from that pain for a little while. Numb it, forget it, redirect it—he just hadn’t wanted to feel it for a night. He’d never imagined he’d get hooked. Not only on the club and its gorgeous men, but on one of those men in particular.

“A rentboy habit?” he heard Jason joking in his kitchen. “You make it sound like I’m a hit of crack.”

Apparently that was a more apt description than either of them had thought.





Blake didn’t go near his usual hotel. Too many memories in that place. Instead, he found a cheap—well, by London standards—room near Victoria Station.

In the room, he let the overnight bag slide off his shoulder and left it where it had fallen by the door. He didn’t see himself sleeping anytime soon, but his body had other plans. A restless flight and too many time zones’ worth of jet lag conspired to drop him into bed before he’d even kicked off his shoes.

When he woke up, sunlight was coming in through the curtains, and he flinched away from it like a hungover vampire, burying his head beneath pillows and blankets. He wasn’t ready to be conscious yet.

Too late, though. Like it or not, he was coming around, so he pushed himself up. His watch—which he’d forgotten to take off—said it was after eleven, but that couldn’t be right. Oh yeah—he never had gotten around to resetting it.

The clock on the bedside table was more reasonable—seven fifteen.

He set his watch to the proper time. He’d have to reset it again when he reached Newark, but he wanted it correct when he was at Heathrow so he didn’t miss his return flight. Which he still needed to rebook because he was not staying in this town longer than he had to.

Gingerly, he pressed his fingers into the back of his neck. The muscles there were like cables—that flight had been f*cking brutal, and this hard hotel bed hadn’t helped.

Sitting there feeling sorry for himself wasn’t going to help either, so he got up and took a shower to ease the stiffness in his neck and shoulders. Clearing his head was a lost cause, but at least it helped wake him up. It was a start.

With a towel around his waist and a few droplets still sliding down from his wet hair, he sank onto the edge of the disheveled bed.

Well. Now what?

There wasn’t much he could do. He loved this city, so he could go kill some time as a tourist if he wanted to. He could go have a drink. Day drinking wasn’t really his thing, but then again, neither was blowing off work for a stunt like this.

He rubbed his temples. There were other clubs like Market Garden. Most of them seedier, though. And of course, there was the pub scene. Picking someone up for a night of anonymous sex wouldn’t be all that difficult here.

But the prospect of casual sex didn’t excite him like it usually did. It exhausted him. Reminded him that after years of happily exploring the pool of available men in New York and London, his list of desirable people had suddenly collapsed to one. One who’d all but told him to go f*ck himself.

Blake sighed and sat up, eyes fixed on the wall, but unfocused. He wasn’t going out. Not for sex, not for a drink, not for a stroll through a museum. Right now, he needed to get away from London like Jason had needed to get away from him last night. For that matter, he needed to stay away. Jason was done with him. Blake was done with Market Garden. That place wasn’t good for his sanity anymore.

First things first—time to get out of the city. He picked up the phone off the bedside table and called the number on the back of his frequent flyer card. When he reached a customer service rep, he said, “I’d like to reschedule my flight from Heathrow to Newark, please.” He paused. “Departing as soon as possible.”



The airline was able to find him a seat on a plane leaving that afternoon, which was enough to light a fire under Blake’s lethargic ass. Showered, shaved, and dressed, he checked out of his room an hour after getting off the phone. The clerk called him a cab, and when it arrived, Blake dropped into the backseat, his overnight bag still slung over his shoulder.

“Heathrow, please. Terminal two.”

The cab nodded and inched his way into the congested streets of London.

For a long time, Blake gazed out the window, watching the familiar scenery go by. He’d grown to love this town over the last couple of years, and sooner or later, he’d be able to see it all again without everything adding up to Jason. He’d get over him the same way he’d gotten all the guys who’d come before him. Actual boyfriends who he’d been with for months or the better part of a year or two. Eventually, Jason would fade into the past.