Zain walked down to the river and ended up sitting in one of his favourite places in London, on a throne. It made him smile every time he perched there. It was a model of the travelling throne of Peter the Great, a famous Russian tsar. Next to it was a huge bronze statue of Peter, then a small one of the Russian’s favourite dwarf. Zain hadn’t heard of Peter the Great but once he’d stumbled across this quiet spot, he’d read a lot about him, a man far from home who’d wanted to learn, wanted to do great things. They had something in common.
He took his apple from his pocket and bit into it. It was possible Musa would tell him not to come back next week. Past time to look for another job. This one bored him anyway, though what job hadn’t? Zain sighed. Instead of a Saturday doing what he liked, which was to visit the free museums and the British Library, he’d have to go around looking for work. On Sunday he’d be helping in a ward in the NHNN, the National Hospital for Neurology and Neurosurgery near Russell Square. The only time in the week he truly felt needed.
When he got up to throw the apple core into a bin, he saw the BMW guy standing a little way away watching him. Zain’s stomach did a small twisting somersault. Did he follow me? He must have. Had the wallet gone? Musa somehow getting it out of the car even with no keys? Zain stood still and the guy walked over.
“My name’s Roman Sorokin.” He held out his hand. Long fingers. Manicured nails.
Zain wasn’t sure he wanted to shake hands but decided it was the wiser option. “Zain Nasry.” He let go almost instantly and the guy smiled.
“Where are you from?” the man asked.
Why was that always the first question? He was disappointed this guy wasn’t different. “Syria.”
“Here legally?”
Zain bristled. “Are you?” The man’s English was excellent, though Zain detected the hint of an accent.
Roman laughed. He was maybe three or four inches taller than Zain and despite the laugh, there was something about him that made Zain uneasy.
“Yes. I’m here legally,” Roman said.
“Me too. Why have you followed me?”
“Who says I’m not here to admire the statue?”
“Who is it of?”
“You tell me.”
“Peter the Great.”
“One of my country’s greatest statesmen and reformers. Then there is much to admire.”
“Even that he had his eldest son tortured to death for allegedly conspiring against him?”
“Yeah, well he was also a dick. Alexsei should have had more sense than to believe his father when he said he wouldn’t hurt him.”
Zain stuffed his trembling fingers into his pockets. “Why did you follow me?”
Roman shrugged. “I wanted to thank you for telling me about the wallet. I don’t know the guy. I lent my car to someone.”
Why did he need to tell him that? What did it matter?
“And in case you were wondering if I’d chopped the man up and disposed of him, the T-shirt is mine. Nosebleed.”
“Stress at having chopped the guy up?” Oh God, shut up.
Roman laughed again. “I like you.”
I’d rather you didn’t. Yet I’m desperate that you do. This was and yet wasn’t the sort of man Zain wanted to be liked by. Plus Zain knew he’d lied. That T-shirt was far too big for him.
When Roman put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a wallet—not the one Zain had found—he found himself swallowing.
“Let me give you a reward for your honesty.”
Now that was the last thing Zain wanted. Stupid pride. He pushed his hands deeper into his pockets. “No need.” Though his gaze lingered on the two twenty-pound notes Roman was holding out. Forget giving it to Musa. That money would buy a winter coat, shoes, gloves and hat from a charity shop. Or maybe a kettle.
“Take it,” Roman said.
“No thanks.” Zain wasn’t even sure why he was being so adamant. Take the money and give it to Musa. Try to keep your job until you find another. The money went back in the wallet and Zain made an attempt to hide his disappointment.
“Do you have family here?” Roman asked.
Zain shook his head.
“How long have you been living in the UK?”
“Two and half years.”
“And you still work at a car wash?”
Fuck you. Zain knew his dismay was showing on his face. “I started small with dishes and worked my way up.” He didn’t like people making judgements, jumping to conclusions.
He set off walking, and Roman kept pace at his side.
“I’m sorry,” Roman said. “I didn’t mean to insult you. It’s just that no one seems to work for long in those places. They learn English and move on to something better. Your English is…very good. I’d hardly know it was a second language.”
In spite of his unease, Zain warmed at the compliment but still couldn’t resist adding, “You still have a bit of an accent.”
Roman laughed. “I don’t mind that. I don’t want to forget where I’m from.”
“Is that likely?”
“No.”
Zain glanced at him then. He’d heard sadness in Roman’s voice.
“How old are you?” Roman asked.
“Twenty-two. How old are you?”
“Thirty-three. Are we friends now?”
“I know nothing about you and you know nothing about me. We’re not friends.”
Zain had no friends. He’d met plenty of people since he’d arrived in the city but had no one he considered a friend. Why would this man want to be his friend? A shiver rippled down Zain’s spine. Only one reason. Was Roman gay? He didn’t look it. Did he think Zain was? Do I look gay? He tried hard not to stand out for any reason but sometimes, he understood that he gave himself away.
Roman clapped his hand to his chest. “You’ve hurt my feelings.”
Zain slammed to a halt and turned to look at him. “What do you want?” A blowjob? A fuck? Going to offer me money? He was relieved he didn’t say any of that. But they were words he’d heard before. He always walked away.
“Come to a party tomorrow night.” Roman felt in his pockets and pulled out a piece of paper and a pen. He scribbled an address on the back of what looked like a receipt and tucked it into Zain’s pocket when he didn’t take it.
“A party.” Zain stared at him.
Roman gave him an amused look. “Yes. A party. Know what they are? Music. Alcohol. Fun.”
“I don’t drink. I don’t have fun.”
Roman grinned. “Probably because you don’t drink.”
“Will there be women?”
“What do you think?”
“I think that’s not an answer.”
“Are you interested in women?”
“That’s not an answer either.”
“I don’t think either of us are interested in women.”
Zain’s heart thumped and the breath caught in his throat.
“I’m interested in you.” Roman’s voice trickled down Zain’s spine. “Come tomorrow and I’ll give you five hundred pounds.”
Hope disintegrated, as if he’d been shot in the heart. Everything came at a price, even friendship.
Zain strode off and Roman didn’t follow.
When he reached the car wash, the BMW had gone. Musa said something to the others who glanced at Zain and laughed. How easy it would be to become paranoid.
While he worked, he reran the encounter with Roman, turning it into what it might have been rather than what it was. Would you like to go out with me? For a meal? Maybe later to a party if we feel like it? But no amount of wishful thinking made it anything other than it was. An offer to pay Zain for sex. He felt as if he’d tried to swallow a whole spoonful of peanut butter and it had caught in his throat.
The terrible, awful, frightening thing was that Zain was tempted. Five hundred pounds! A lot of money. Two weeks’ wages. What would he have to do for that? No one paid so much for straight sex, surely. So…kinky sex? Though Zai
n had no idea what that would involve. Sex with other men as well as Roman? Maybe not even with Roman at all.
Zain was no longer trying to deny he was attracted to men. In the UK it was much safer to be gay, though not entirely safe. But accepting what being gay meant was a big thing for him. He’d been struggling since he arrived. Deny his feelings or give in to them. Though he’d been so occupied with survival day-to-day, even in this country, that he’d tried not to dwell on that side of his life. I’m Muslim, whether lapsed or not. I cannot be gay.
But I can’t not be what I am. It wasn’t his fault. Being gay wasn’t a disease or a mental condition. It was just the way he was. But acting on the way he felt was something else entirely.
As if my life isn’t difficult enough.
Later that afternoon, Zain ended up face down on the forecourt for the second time, tripped on purpose. Not long after, he’d ended up being blasted with the hose by Latif who claimed not to have seen him. The water went under his jacket and soaked the bottom of his shirt. Zain spent the rest of the day freezing cold, trying to decide whether he could afford to not go back on Monday if he didn’t find another job that weekend.
Well, he already knew the answer to that. It would be stupid to walk out without another job to go to. Stupid to go to that party. Stupid to think any more about Roman Sorokin.
“You pay me,” Musa snarled into his ear as they worked side by side. “You want to keep job, then you do what I say. For not doing as I say, now you have to pay me.”
So this was his last day. He wouldn’t be working here on Monday. Maybe he’d be working in a different way tomorrow. But the guilt that would come with the five hundred pounds might be too much to bear.
Zain’s day finished at six but he wasn’t going to stay until then. At around five thirty, while Musa was busy valeting the interior of a red car, Zain slipped into the portacabin and changed. He hadn’t planned what he did next but found himself opening the battered grey cabinet in the corner and looking for his file. One piece of paper held his name, address, phone number, national insurance number and bank account. It gave the date he’d started, the weeks he’d worked, what he’d been paid. It might not be the only record. Whoever owned this car wash probably had a copy but taking this sheet was the best Zain could do to protect himself.
He closed the drawer, scrunched up the sheet of paper and stuffed it into his pocket, then before he slipped away, scribbled a note for Musa saying he wasn’t coming back. He set off in the wrong direction in case he was seen leaving and followed, though he was assuming Musa hadn’t already memorised where he lived. Backtracking along side streets, Zain wandered around until he was sure no one was pursuing him then headed home.
There was no way he’d pay Musa because the demands would never stop. If he complained to the owner of the business, assuming he could find out who that was, he’d get nowhere. No more car washing. A happy thought but knowing he had to look for another job filled him with dread. There wasn’t much an unskilled refugee would be considered for. He’d like to work in a shop but those jobs went so quickly. He had some experience from last Christmas when he’d been taken on for two months but that was the only time he’d managed to get retail work.
When he stopped at a cash machine to get the money for next month’s rent, due to be collected that night, he was relieved to see his wages for the week had been deposited. Deep in thought about the prospect of five hundred pounds, Zain didn’t notice the black BMW parked outside his building until he was alongside it. When Roman climbed out, no coat, just in a white shirt and loosely fastened blue tie, his top button undone, Zain froze. Had he been too slow to take the sheet of paper out of the filing cabinet? How else could Roman have found him?
Roman moved in front of him. “I find myself unable to wait.”
Despite everything telling him what a bad idea this was, one part of Zain’s body felt it was a very good idea. Fortunately, the evidence of that was hidden by his jacket. But… I don’t do this. I don’t accept money to be fucked, to give a guy a blowjob. He’d been tempted, just to get a hot meal, help with his rent, buy a textbook or two but whenever he’d been propositioned, he’d always walked away. As bad as his life was, selling himself was opening a door he could never step back through. He wasn’t going to include what had happened in France. It didn’t count.
Roman continued to stare at him as if he knew Zain was going through some decision-making process in his head. He wasn’t. That decision had been made. If Roman had wanted Zain to be his boyfriend… If money had never been mentioned… Maybe he could go through that door. But it had been mentioned and that changed everything. It made Zain sad, yet still desperate to give Roman one last chance to turn this into something different.
“Five hundred pounds?” Zain asked quietly.
A swift expression of what looked like annoyance flashed across Roman’s face. “That’s for coming to the party tomorrow night. Eight o’clock. No later.” He glanced at Zain’s building. “Can I come up?”
“No.” Zain wrapped his hands around his keys, his weapon if needed, and walked up the steps.
He half-expected to feel Roman’s hand on his shoulder, but he made it inside and closed the door without being touched. He looked back through the glass panel to see Roman leaning on his car, staring at him.
Zain made his way up the stairs with his heart racing. Now he not only needed a new job, he probably needed a new place to live. He unlocked his door, pushed it open, then pressed his back against it to close it. He nearly jumped out of his skin when the buzzer went off next to his head.
He pressed the button on the intercom. “What?”
“You’re the winner of the postcode lottery,” Roman said.
“What’s that?”
“Don’t you watch TV?”
“No.”
“Let me in.”
Zain’s stomach fluttered. “I don’t think so.”
“I take heart from the word think. Come on. Let me in. Going to make me huff and puff and blow your house down?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Zaaaain.”
The whisper of his name sent goose bumps racing down Zain’s spine.
“I can’t wait until tomorrow.”
Zain shuddered. Longing or fear. It was both.
“I’m so hard,” Roman whispered.
Zain’s stomach clenched. Say no.
Why couldn’t Roman have asked him to go out for a meal, to the cinema, for a drink? Then asked for a blowjob, which Zain had no idea how to do. Yet his finger pressed the release for the entrance and he set the door of his room ajar. He took off his jacket and hung it on the hook, then put his hand in the pocket, removed the scrunched-up sheet of paper and smoothed it out. Am I trying to fool myself that this paper is the reason I’ve allowed him in?
He heard Roman bounding up one, then two flights of stairs, and Zain’s heart raced faster and faster with each step until the door fully opened, then it felt as if his heart stopped. The guy walked in and looked around. Zain could guess what he was thinking. There is nothing here. An inflatable mattress, a blanket, a couple of bags, a pile of books, a small heap of clothes.
You don’t know me. Don’t judge me. His heart surged back to life and to his dismay, he heard himself noisily suck air into his lungs.
Zain held up the details of his employment. “How much to see this?”
Roman’s mouth twitched. “Twenty pounds.”
Zain sighed. Roman pushed the door closed. When he reached for him, Zain stepped back. His mind was twisting around. Roman had said he couldn’t wait. He wasn’t offering money now. Roman wanted him, and not so deep inside Zain was a voice saying I want this too. The voice had been talking to him for a long time, but this was as loud as he’d ever heard it.
Roman’s hand wrapped around Zain’s wrist and tugged.
Zain resisted.
“I really want you,” Roman said. “But tell me no, and I’ll w
alk away.”
Inside his head, yes was shouting louder than no, but Zain couldn’t speak.
“Don’t you want to?” Roman whispered.
I shouldn’t.
“Just a blowjob.”
Zain wished he didn’t want to do this, but he did. He’d know one way or the other then, wouldn’t he? I already know. Why I am pretending?
Chapter Four
What the fuck am I doing? Roman still held tight to Zain’s bony wrist. He was not an indecisive man. He’d come here after one thing and now he was wondering whether he was wise to want it at all. Zain stared into his eyes and if Roman had seen a smirk, fear, resignation… anything other than fierce determination, he’d have walked away.
Perhaps.
Zain gave a faint sigh, such a quiet exhalation that Roman almost missed it but he reacted as if Zain had licked his cock. It had been a long time since he’d felt such a powerful rush of lust. Not since he was eleven and realised he liked boys and not girls. He released Zain’s wrist and waited. Look at me! But Zain didn’t.
What was the attraction? Physically, Zain appealed but it had to be more than that because Roman didn’t chase. He hardly ever had sex. But he drank in Zain’s dark beauty and the defiance in his eyes. He looked almost ferocious. Would he do what Roman told him?
“On your knees.” There was a catch in his voice, much to his annoyance.
When Zain dropped to his knees, Roman’s cock throbbed so hard, he thought he was going to come in his trousers. Zain looked up at him, a tentative smile on his face and Roman, for the first time in his life—as far as sex was concerned, felt lost. Completely and utterly lost.
Except maybe, not as lost as Zain, who still knelt there looking up at him and not doing anything.
“Unfasten my trousers,” Roman told him.
Maybe Zain liked to be told what to do. That suited Roman. Zain’s slender fingers pushed the button free, then eased down the zip. As Zain’s fingers accidentally, or maybe on purpose, brushed the bulge in his boxers, Roman’s heart thumped and his hips jerked. Was Zain shaking? Maybe he was as excited as him.
Whatever It Takes Page 6
