On the Clock (Market Garden, #8)(60)

“Sure. That’s fine.” This thing could definitely still go south, and the fewer witnesses, the better.

Jason motioned for him to follow, and they joined the throngs of people squeezing through the barrier and heading for the escalators. They didn’t talk or even so much as glance at each other as they descended into the Underground. On the train to South Kensington, they fit right in with the Londoners around them—no eye contact, no conversation.

When they reached their stop, they got off the train, emerged from the station, and started walking toward Jason’s place. Blake had been down this road once before, but he couldn’t have found his way to Jason’s flat on his own to save his life.

Jason kept his hands in his pockets. As he walked, something rattled quietly, though not quite rhythmically, as if he were rolling objects around between his fingers. Like rocks or coins—the sound was too muffled to readily identify.

He glanced at Blake and the bag on his shoulder again. “You’ve already checked out, then?”

Blake nodded. “I was on my way to the airport.”

“Oh. Right. You’re—” The clicking stopped. “Are you going to miss your flight?”

“There’ll be others.”

“I suppose I could’ve met you there.”

“This is fine. We’re almost to your place, aren’t we?”

“Yeah. This way.”

They followed the walk up to Jason’s flat, and he keyed them in. Déjà vu. Well, sort of. Blake had been a little uneasy about coming in here the first time because it seemed like he was crossing a line that Jason clearly didn’t let most people cross. Now, he didn’t know what to feel. If anything, being here was salt in the wound—a reminder of how flirty and at ease they’d been the night before they’d flown to the States, when they’d talked about Jason’s trophies and bantered like old friends. All of that may as well have happened in another lifetime.

In the kitchen, there was a bottle of Rémy Martin on the table and a glass sitting beside it.

Jason picked up the bottle and scanned the label. “One of my clients gave this to me. Must’ve been a year or so ago now.”

Blake didn’t respond—he wasn’t sure what to say.

“Took me until last night to crack it open.” Sighing, Jason set the bottle on the counter. “For something that expensive, you’d think it would’ve tasted better. Apparently you really can’t buy taste.”

Any other time, this would’ve sparked a volley of playful comments and some good-natured swipes at their respective nationalities. Blake hadn’t realized how much he’d miss that.

He cleared his throat. “We’re not here to talk about liquor, are we?”

“No.” Jason’s shoulders sank. He faced Blake, features taut and eyes nearly as intense as they’d been in the alley. “I was actually surprised that you left last night.”

“What was I supposed to do? You wanted me to go, so I did.”

The clicking started again—subtle, but pronounced enough to emphasize the silence between them until Jason finally spoke. “I half expected you to come back in. Try to persuade me.”

Blake’s shoulders sank beneath an invisible weight. “What good would it have done? I said my piece. You made your decision.” He shrugged. “I wasn’t there to harass you.”

“I know.” Jason was almost whispering now, avoiding Blake’s eyes. The clicking slowed. Stopped. Started again. “But you’re not the first to come to me and say you’ve fallen in love with me. You were . . .” He met Blake’s gaze. “You were the first to take no for an answer.”

Blake had no idea what to say to that.

Jason exhaled. “There’s something I need to know.”

“Okay.”

“If I hadn’t contacted you today, would I have ever seen you again as a john?”

The thought of not seeing Jason in any context tightened Blake’s throat, but he made himself shake his head anyway. “Probably not.”

“Why?”

Blake swallowed. “Because things have changed. Maybe not for you, but they have for me. I mean, I would never tell you that you can’t keep working at Market Garden if it makes you happy, but I don’t think I could come back as a john. I . . . I can’t put a price tag on how I feel when I’m with you.”

Jason’s breath hitched. He lowered his gaze, kneading the back of his neck. “Look, after the things you said, I . . . I guess I don’t know what to think. The thing is, johns fall in love with us all the time. It’s . . . it’s sort of a natural progression, you know? Guys like me, we provide things that men aren’t getting elsewhere, and sometimes the line blurs between a transaction and, well, intimate human contact.” He half shrugged. “So we’ve all had to learn to gently pull back and walk away.”

Last night was “gently” pulling back?

“Why are we having this conversation, then?” Blake studied him. “Am I missing my flight for you to remind me of what you said last night?”

Jason winced. “No. No, I don’t . . .” He raked a hand through his hair. “To tell you the truth, I didn’t sleep last night because I couldn’t stop thinking about the conversation we had. After you left, I couldn’t . . . It doesn’t matter. I came back here.” He gestured at the table where the Rémy Martin had been a moment ago. “Then I sat here most of the night with that bottle because I couldn’t sleep. And when I wasn’t thinking about how awful it tasted, I was thinking about you. And what you said.”