If It Drives (A Market Garden Tale)

by Aleksandr Voinov

  He banished the thought and stood a little straighter, setting his jaw as James approached. The man didn’t make eye contact. Didn’t say a word. He slipped past Cal and into the car, and Cal wasn’t sure how to feel about that. Hurt? Thankful? A little of both. Not that it mattered.

  He shut the door and returned to the driver’s seat. Following the familiar route to Market Garden felt weird tonight. He knew every inch of this drive, but somehow it was alien and . . . different. The same place in another dimension, looking every bit like he remembered but thrumming with a strange energy.

  In front of Market Garden, Cal went through his usual routine. Car in park. Cap on. Engine idling. Door open. Check out James’s arse while he—

  No. Not tonight.

  He didn’t even wait until James had disappeared into the club before he got back in the car and moved it to a parking space. Once he was out of the no-parking zone, he killed the engine, tossed his cap unceremoniously onto the other seat, and let his head fall back against the headrest. He didn’t bother reaching for his notebook. There’d be no writing tonight. Not for university, and not on that novel he’d be working on until the day he died. He didn’t even have to stare at the blank page to know the words weren’t coming this evening.

  If the trips to Market Garden had a silver lining, it was that this part—the waiting outside on the kerb—didn’t usually last long. James knew what he liked. He had a few regulars, a few favourites. Sometimes there were new faces. Whether he went for the tried-and-true or sampled someone else, one thing was consistent: he worked quickly. Which meant that within the hour, Cal would be on the road again, following that familiar-but-not route back to the house, and he’d be relieved of duty after they arrived.

  It also meant that within the hour, he’d be on the road again, knowing all too well what was going on behind that opaque privacy screen. Maybe he didn’t know exactly what the rentboy du jour was doing or saying, or how he’d charmed James and got himself picked over the others, but Cal knew how James sounded when he was on edge. When he was flustered. Did they make him beg? God, he knew they did. They had to. Because nearly every time James emerged from the limo at the house, he was off-balance and trembling just the way he’d been when he’d begged Cal to fuck him.

  Cal closed his eyes. He tried not to think about that night, but it was pointless. It was about as pointless as trying to convince himself he wasn’t at all jealous of whichever leather-clad piece of arse would be riding in the back with James tonight.

  For money, Cal. You’re no man’s whore.

  He sighed and glanced in the side mirror. Still no James. Of all nights for him to be picky . . .

  His mobile buzzed beside him. He picked it up and saw a text from one of his mates.

  We’re going out on the piss in Soho tonight. You in?

  He chewed the inside of his cheek. Much as he hated Soho on a Saturday night, getting tanked with his friends did sound like a good way to anaesthetise the fantasies that would otherwise keep him awake all night. Passing out would be easier than sleeping when he knew some rentboy was balls deep in James and—

  Oh, no. Not jealous at all.

  He texted back, On the clock. Off in an hour or so. Meet somewhere?

  He hit send, and right then, movement in the side mirror caught his eye. He glanced up just in time to see James coming down the sidewalk beside a slender set of muscles and sass all wrapped up in tight leather.

  Gritting his teeth, he got out of the car. He opened the door for James and whoever this kid was. Looked to be about twenty-five, if that. Just a few years younger than Cal. Apparently James liked his whores around that age.

  Yep. Definitely needed to go out on the piss tonight.

  James conspicuously avoided Cal’s eyes as he got into the car. The rentboy glanced at him, a hint of a smirk working at his lips, and the down-up glance made Cal’s skin crawl.

  No. I am not joining you. Don’t even ask.

  He was careful not to slam the door this time. It was tempting though, especially with the sound of squeaking leather and hushed voices coming from the back of the car. He shut it, went back to his seat, and started the engine.

  Beside him, his mobile buzzed again.

  We’re mtg at leicester sq tube station. 830p.

  Cal quickly sent back, I’ll be there.

  He glanced at the screen and did something he rarely did: he turned on the radio and turned it up. Everything was easier when he could shut down some of the sensory input. He wouldn’t see or hear anything of James and the rentboy until they got out of the car, so for the moment, he just rolled along with his favourite Queen songs blasting from the speakers, letting Freddie Mercury lift his mood. It worked, and almost made him forget what was going on right behind him.

  When he arrived and opened the door, James was flustered and turned on. It hit him right in the gut.

  He hadn’t worked through it, they weren’t back to normal, and he was one hundred percent sure they’d never get back to normal. That was why that one fuck had been such a mistake. There really was no way to go back after that.

  James slung his arm across the rentboy’s shoulders. “Take the night off, Callum.”

  Cal refused to look him in the eyes. “Yes, sir.” He cleared his throat. “Tomorrow is my day off, sir.”

  “Oh. Is it? Well, that’s fine. I’ll get him a cab back. Enjoy your Sunday.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  He watched them vanish into the house, and something pinched in his chest. Jealous of a whore? Really?

  No, it wasn’t just jealousy. He’d have been okay if James had brought a friend home. It was that the strutting, leather-clad rentboy only saw a meal ticket in James. Wouldn’t care, barely gave a fuck. James would be all right for a few days and then slowly sink back into the place where he needed to buy another piece of arse—he’s buying their cocks, Cal, and you know it—and so on, and so forth. It was always the same and there seemed to be no escaping. If James would just date, find somebody who cared about him at all—

  He’s not your responsibility, Cal.

  Grinding his teeth, he took the car round to the garage, then went into his house, changed into something more casual, put on the leather combo, and got his motorcycle out. They were much faster than a car in traffic, much cheaper to run, and it was as far away from the limo as it could possibly be. He debated taking a cab in case he decided to get rat-arsed tonight, but he rarely drank much. If he changed his mind, he could always lock up the bike and come get it tomorrow when he was sober. Bonus: he didn’t have to wait now for a cab while they were in the main house doing God knew what in exchange for God knew how much money.

  Getting back into London was faster at this time of night, and parking was usually no big issue. He made it to Leicester Square without running over a single idiot tourist, parked, and found the place where his friends were already waiting, two of them with their eyes glued to their mobiles.

  He walked towards them and waved.

  Kim acknowledged him with a nod, and when he came closer, said, “Man, when are you gonna bring that big car out with us?”

  “When I decide I want to get fired,” Cal muttered, and shrugged away a shudder. He didn’t even want to think about that fucking car or its owner tonight.

  “You suck.” Kim clapped his shoulder. “We’re just waiting on a couple of the guys.”

  “Sounds good.” Cal leaned against the wall beside his friend and played on his mobile while they waited. He checked his emails. Checked his Facebook. Wondered about James. And the rentboy. And how sweaty and flustered they might be by—

  “There they are!” Kim startled him out of his thoughts, and not a moment too soon. Cal made a subtle—well, as subtle as possible—attempt to adjust the front of his trousers and mask the effects of his thoughts of James. Great time to be wearing tight leather, naturally. At least he’d only just started getting an uninvited hard-on. Nothing a few thoughts of Margaret Thatcher in a negli
gee couldn’t remedy.

  The stragglers in their group caught up, and Cal followed everyone into a pub. It was still fairly early in the evening by partying standards, so they made it to the bar without much trouble and ordered the first round.

  There was an unoccupied booth in the back corner, and the group crowded into it.

  Aaron, the group’s unabashed manwhore, craned his neck and raised his eyebrows. “Oh, hello . . .”

  “Already?” Cal chuckled. “You’re not wasting any time tonight, are you?”

  “Not when something like that just walked through the door, no.”

  Cal looked. It didn’t take much to pick Aaron’s target out of the crowd. He liked the insanely muscled types who got as much of their size from a needle as a weight bench, and a meathead just like that was flagging down the bartender. The guy did have a nice arse, and he was probably hot when he wasn’t mutated beyond recognition, resembling the victim of a killer bee attack instead of a specimen of perfect fitness.

  Sipping his beer, Cal looked around to see what else the crowd had to offer tonight.

  Plenty of leather trousers, that was for sure. And some tight jeans. One guy wore some sort of sparkly skintight abomination that made his balls look like disco balls. He’d probably gone commando, too, and all Cal could think was whoever got him into bed tonight would be picking glitter out of his teeth tomorrow.

  He made eye contact with a gorgeous blond in a tight black T-shirt. The clothes didn’t do much for him—jeans, T-shirt, blah, blah, blah—but that grin said come and get me. The arched eyebrow said I dare you.

  Well, all right then.

  Cal elbowed Aaron. “Excuse me, gentlemen.”

  “What?” Aaron slid out of the booth to let him past. “Already?”

  “Already?” Cal rolled his eyes. “You’re one to talk.”

  “Yeah, but you don’t usually—”

  The music drowned out whatever else he’d had to say, and Cal just batted his eyes, shrugged, and then shouldered his way through the thickening crowd.

  “Hi,” he said over the music.

  The blond grinned wider. “Hi.”

  Cal gestured at the bar. “What are you drinking?”

  The blond peered at the glass in Cal’s hand. “What’s that?”

  “Doom Bar.”

  “I’ll try one of those.”

  Thank God, he’s not drinking London Pride. They exchanged grins, and Cal bought the drink. While they waited, he said, “I’m Cal.”

  “Ethan.”

  The bartender quickly served up the beer, and Ethan took Cal by the elbow. Cal wasn’t sure how he felt about being physically pulled, but . . . whatever. Beer and a potential piece of arse for the night. He wasn’t going to be picky about who did what.

  They found a table off to one side, one of the last remaining as people steadily poured in through the front door. Cal took a long swallow of beer, and then focused on Ethan. “So what do you do?”

  Ethan’s lips pulled back in a devilish smile. “Hot men, naturally.” He gave Cal a conspicuous up-and-down, and then winked.

  Cal laughed, but something in his gut was starting to feel heavy. Ethan was cute, he’d give him that. And he had that come-hither thing going on. But he was, what, maybe twenty-one? Twenty-two?

  Put a little leather on him, and he could pass for one of the rentboys at Market Garden.

  That thought sent Cal into his beer. He took two deep swallows before putting the glass back on the table. Seemed his preference had shifted—narrowed, in fact, towards the upper end of his usual age spectrum, towards dark hair and a better dress sense. Ethan was not going to cut it.

  “Long week?” Ethan asked, a little caution mixing with the mischief in his eyes.

  “You could say that.”

  Ethan drew back slightly. “So, um, what do you do?”

  That heavy something grew heavier. “I’m a chauffeur.”

  “Really?” That seemed to draw Ethan back in. “You just drive people around in a limo all day?”

  “Limo, yes.” Cal cleared his throat. “But just one guy.” Well, and whomever he’s picked up along the way. “I drive a rich banker all over the place.” Banker was the shorthand that everybody understood. Private equity managing partner was more of a mouthful. Even Cal wasn’t quite sure what it meant, only that James was buying and selling companies with investors’ money and took his cut from the profits. Something like that.

  “Interesting.” The glint in Ethan’s eye made Cal’s stomach sink lower and lower. “So, when you’re off duty, do you still have access—”

  “The car’s kept under lock and key.” Cal forced a laugh. “I’m afraid not.”

  “Aww, damn.”

  Besides, it probably already smells like sex tonight.

  This was not going to work. Maybe it was the fact that James was back at home getting fucked by a whore, maybe it was simply ennui, maybe he didn’t want to pull Ethan into his horrible mood, but he couldn’t do this. He just wasn’t up for fun and games. He wasn’t up for writing. He was useless. In that state, the best thing he could do was something that didn’t pull in innocent bystanders.

  He rubbed his temples.

  “Headache?” Ethan asked. Damn, he was cute, concerned, maybe worried by now. He really didn’t deserve a fuck that was nothing more than Cal taking his mind off James.

  “Yeah. Migraines run in the family. I think I’m getting one.” Cal stood. “I should go.” He cringed at the echo of what he’d said before leaving James’s bedroom. “I’m . . . I’m really sorry.”

  Ethan reached for his hand when he walked past him towards the door. Cal paused, feeling shitty for the ruse, but not nearly as shitty as if he’d stayed for a fuck-and-run. “Hey, you take care of yourself, okay?”

  “No worries. Thanks, Ethan.” He made his escape and, once outside, sucked in the night air as if there had been no damned oxygen in that bar. Aaron was busy with the meathead, and Cal didn’t see the other guys, but he had no doubt they’d have fun without him.

  He didn’t go home. Not yet.

  Market Garden was packed compared to the place he’d left in Soho. Cal had made his way inside, passing through the strip club and into the lounge area behind the curtains, expecting any moment to be found out and told to leave, but they let him pass, and there . . .

  Why the hell was he here? He’d ridden around for a while, wandering the streets of London aimlessly. Maybe it was just habit, but as soon as he’d turned onto a road that formed part of the route from James’s place to Market Garden, he’d automatically come here. He hadn’t even realised this was his destination until he’d arrived, and then he’d come in anyway. Why, he had no idea. It was louder and more crowded than the place that had overwhelmed him earlier, and given the clientele—men who dressed as expensively or more so than James—he’d never be able to afford to get laid here.

  But I’m here now. And for some reason, I feel like I should be.

  This was very much James’s hunting ground. Well, Cal wasn’t sure “hunting” was the word. More like shooting fish in a barrel. The rentboys were all hot, and there seemed to be at least one of every type Cal could imagine, all kinds of guys from twinks to brick walls. A couple of leatherguys hung out at the bar and didn’t appear to be selling anything, but admittedly, Cal didn’t have the experience to tell a whore from somebody who was open-minded about where the night might go.

  He looked around and tried to get his bearings. There was the twink couple James had rented one night, and they were sitting left and right of a happy-looking banker type, flirting with him in between eye-fucking each other.

  A goddamned gorgeous barkeeper stood behind the bar, displaying a naked chest full of tattoos, mixing drinks with the faux-bored air of a barely tamed badass doing things way, way under his paygrade.

  “You looking for somebody, kid?”

  Cal turned around. Now they were going to tell him to get lost. They’d seen in his face and his ga
it and his clothes that he didn’t have the money to buy anything here—or at least no more than a drink. He could definitely swing one of those.

  “Uh.” He cleared his throat, looking at the ripped guy in camos standing in front of him. The kind eyes gave him pause, and the American drawl sounded friendly. In his experience, the big guys were usually pretty gentle. By that logic, this guy had to be a puppy, because his physique was damn near scary. “It’s complicated.”

  The American’s eyebrows rose. “Complicated? In here? Do tell.”

  Cal shifted his weight. “I, well.” He glanced around, feeling more conspicuous and out of place than he’d ever been in his life, even though with his leather trousers, he probably fit in, at least visually. “I’m . . .”

  “Do you want something to drink?” The American nodded towards the bar. “Sit down for a minute?”

  Cal balked. “I’m not looking to hire anyone. Like that.”

  The American smiled warmly. “It’s all right. I work security anyway, so I get paid either way.”

  Cal relaxed a little. “Okay. Sure. You don’t mind?”

  “Not at all.” He extended his hand. “Name’s Brandon.”

  Cal shook his hand. “Callum. Most people call me Cal.”

  Brandon nodded. “You want anything in particular from the bar?”

  “Just a Coke is fine. I’m driving.”

  “All right. Grab a seat”—he gestured at an open booth—“and I’ll be right back.”

  On his way to the booth, Cal wasn’t entirely sure what to make of Brandon. Nice guy. Really nice guy. Hot, too. And sitting down for a drink with a lost-looking client didn’t seem like part of a security guard’s job description, but he supposed the guy knew the rules.

  Cal drummed his fingers on the table and looked around the lounge. So this was Market Garden. Bankers, lawyers, and prostitutes. All the people who screwed other people for a living, converging in one dimly lit place where the booze flowed and the tension was palpable. Some guy in a suit was getting squirmy and red-faced next to a grinning, shirtless rentboy. Another banker—Cal thought he recognised him, actually—was tugging at his collar and gulping as a guy in a suit and another in leather made out right beside him.