City Mouse

by Aleksandr Voinov

  Owen shook his head. “No. No—all the money in the world couldn’t do what you all are doing in this office. We’ll make do, okay? Don’t worry. Give me a day—one where I haven’t just had a knock-down-drag-out with Mal, and I’ll get this shit nailed. I’ll think of something.”

  Emmaline smiled. “Okay, good. That’s the Owen we know and love. Now, do you want to talk about that other thing?”

  Owen’s surge of optimism faded, and with it, his red-boiling vision and his rage. He was left . . . sad. And disappointed. And absurdly, terribly hurt.

  “No,” he said, swallowing hard. “Not here at work, anyway.”

  “Well, luv, I’m leaving in about fifteen minutes. It’s nearly time to close up shop, and for once I want to help George with some dinner. How ’bout you come home with me, have a beer with George, watch some telly, maybe pour out your troubles there. My youngest will be home—he’s not twenty, still on holiday from university. We’d love to have you.”

  Owen looked at the tower he was working on, thinking it would be another three hours at the very least, and that his head was starting to pound from the stress already. And that, even if he did finish the tower and went home, Malcolm still wouldn’t be there in three hours. And that it didn’t really feel like home without Malcolm anyway.

  “Well,” he said, thinking he was going to say no.

  “George will be in charge of the food tonight, dear. I think we’re having bacon cheeseburgers, for Ollie’s sake.”

  Oh God yes. Bacon, cheese, and hamburger. How could he say no?

  “Sure, Emmy. That sounds wonderful. Fifteen minutes here, I’ll have this cleaned up and ready to start tomorrow. Thanks. Uhm . . .” Oh hell. How could he back out if she had? “You haven’t invited Wendy, have you?”

  Emmaline rolled her eyes. “Oh God no. Owen, I promise you, I’m your friend.”

  Owen laughed a little and nodded, reassured. Good. The last thing he needed was to be stuck in a corner with a predatory blonde.

  “Awesome. Like I said, fifteen minutes, and I’m there.”

  * * * * *

  Owen recognized Emmaline and George’s neighborhood—not fancy, but nice. The yards were mowed regularly but not manicured, the paint wasn’t peeling but the cars were all at least five years old. Still, there was something calm and sedentary about the area. Nobody had drunken brawls on the front lawns, and the odds were good nobody’s kids were dealing crack to the poor kids in the school toilets. It was a nice neighborhood. It was probably on some side of some street or river that Malcolm would disdain, but Owen loved it. It was the sort of neighborhood his mother had worked her whole life to live in. She’d managed to rent half a duplex nearby, and that’s where they’d lived as he’d gone to high school, and where she still lived now.

  He liked this neighborhood. He liked it very much.

  Emmaline’s husband was . . . a surprise. Where Emmaline was frumpy dresses and graying frazzled-in braids, every bit the comfortable British mum, George was . . .

  Well, Owen would do him in a hot second, if he weren’t married and Owen were single, and if he swung that way.

  Owen stepped over the threshold awkwardly, a little stiff in the house of strangers, but he couldn’t stay that way for long. George smiled at his wife from the refrigerator, tall, and still trim and hale for a man in his late forties. His jaw was square and his laugh lines bracketed his mouth and fanned from the corner of his brown eyes. His eyes took in Owen and nodded, then he looked at his Emmaline, and Owen felt vaguely ashamed for noticing that he was damned attractive.

  “Can I get you a brew, Emmy? And one for your young friend?”

  Owen tried for a gracious smile. “A beer? That would be amazing. I’m Owen, and I think Emmy saved my life tonight.”

  George moved from the small kitchen into the living room toward the door, two beers in hand.

  “She does that. In a moment, how about you follow me into the conservatory and help me with the food, and you can tell me what she saved you from.”

  Owen took the beer from him and thought about all of the ways Malcolm would treat this man wrong. Mal would be jealous, Mal would be condescending, Mal would be petty. But George smiled at him, and then moved to his wife’s side and pulled her in for a brief kiss.

  For a moment, they were the only two people in the world. Emmy’s plain, middle-aged face turned up to her husband’s more handsome one, and he looked at her like she was the most beautiful woman in all of creation. Her smile made her lips fuller and illuminated her entire face. Years fell away, lines fell away, and what was left was young and sweet and completely open and vulnerable.

  Owen couldn’t watch them. It hurt.

  The kiss ended, George stepped back, and Owen’s awkwardness vanished. This wasn’t a place for his sexuality to be challenged, for his heart to walk a fine line. This place was home and safety and comfort.

  That kiss said it all.

  * * * * *

  It was approaching ten-thirty at night and no sign of Owen. It was weird being home before him. He’d checked the penthouse, but found no sign of Owen. Considering Owen was usually here to welcome him back, it was like a flashback to pre-Owen times. Nightmarish.

  He felt more alone than he had in weeks. And although Malcolm tried to tell himself that he’d done just fine in those days—he’d loved being single and making his own rules—his chest tightened uncomfortably, like somebody was strangling him with one of his own silk ties. It let up a bit when he checked the wardrobe and Owen’s suitcase was still there. So was his passport in the drawer, on top of the socks. He sat down on the bed, staring sightlessly at the wardrobe for a while, hoping he’d hear Owen’s keys in the door.

  He wasn’t sure when it occurred to him to call.

  The phone picked up and there was a bit of an uproar in the background. “Owen?”

  “No. Owen’s playing table tennis with my dad. Didn’t realize he’d left his phone on the table ’til I heard it buzzing. Is this Malcolm?”

  “Uh. No.” Malcolm hung up, pulse high up in his throat.

  So, he was sitting there, worried as all hell, and Owen was playing table tennis? With some guy just answering his fucking mobile phone?

  Malcolm stood up, not sure why the anger felt so miserable. Normally he enjoyed being angry, but now he felt downright horrid. Owen could damn well have called him, right?

  But did he really expect you to be home? Malcolm ignored that little voice. Fucker. Stealing away his righteous anger.

  He rubbed his face, took his glasses off, and rubbed his eyes. He felt tired, defeated, angry, but helpless. So what now? Sit indoors and play pining dog, or do something about it?

  Percy.

  Shit. At the very least, Percy was entertaining. Networking. Catching up. What had Percy said? He’d hit the clubs. Percy had always been a hardcore partier, even when the bank had seriously cut down on free hours. Now, working for a more relaxed place, he was likely unstoppable.

  Malcolm dialed Percy’s number.

  “Hi?”

  “Malcolm here. I, uh. I’m free tonight. Unexpectedly.”

  No background sounds gave away where he was or what he was doing. Outdoors, maybe?

  “Excellent. What are you in the mood for?”

  “A change. I really need to . . . change something. Walls closing in.”

  That was too much information by far. But Percy wasn’t working for the bank anymore, and he had nothing to gain whatsoever by selling Malcolm down the river.

  “Ah, the Workaholic Blues. Know what, grab a cab and come down to Temple Station. I’ll pick you up in fifteen?”

  “Deal.” Malcolm ended the call and cleaned his glasses, feeling an odd determination settle in his gut. A coldness. It wasn’t the first time in his life that he’d hit a wall—hell, much of the last ten years had been about running down walls and making his way despite everything else. Owen was fucking joking if he thought Malcolm would throw everything away on a whim.


  He pulled his tie loose and changed into a fresh shirt, then grabbed his wallet and keys and snatched a cab. At Temple, another cab was waiting, annoying probably every driver rushing along the Thames, but Percy just waved him inside, so Malcolm switched over, and Percy grinned at him as the driver pulled away from the curb.

  “Your timing was perfect. I was just on the way to a private . . . establishment.”

  “Uh-uh.”

  “A club,” Percy said with an air of injured dignity. “Of course, if you’re in the mood . . .”

  “Do they serve vodka?”

  “Yep.”

  That decided it. Malcolm settled in his corner of the cab. The trip was short into the West End, and there, Percy led him down a side street and then a corner entrance one block in. He waved at the security guys, who looked Malcolm up and down.

  Inside was a nightclub with a rather more mixed clientele than Malcolm would have expected. Percy waved at some people, clapped a shoulder here and there, but moved quickly and efficiently through the throng.

  Malcolm did his best to stay in his wake despite the gloom and the flashing lights and the thumping music, which seemed very much in keeping with the overall theme, heightening the kitschy decor of fake plants and creepers and fake wood.

  Percy headed further inside to another door and another pair of security.

  Beyond was an altogether different bar—men only, though the cluster of drag queens qualified, too.

  “I see what you mean.”

  “The barkeeper is pretty handy with drinks, too. So you can just chill.” Percy nodded to a couple guys, and while some were clearly here to peddle their arses, it seemed like a pretty relaxed place overall. No aggressive selling going on, though plenty of guys checking each other out.

  Customers seemed to be City types, and sellers ranged from a pair of twinks who looked very much like they were selling together, to another guy who was idly playing with a riding crop. That guy was selling pain, and his arched eyebrow seemed like something of a permanent invitation. Malcolm couldn’t help but grin a little at the guy’s panache, playing Big Bad Dom when he was five foot and change. Maybe he had the same Napoleon complex as Josh.

  “Vodka, you said?” Percy asked, and headed to the bar while Malcolm settled in the booth.

  Malcolm glanced to the next booth down and noticed two guys just departing. He exhaled, relieved that nobody approached him.

  Percy returned with a vodka and a beer and planted down next to him, then gave the room a sweep as if checking whether a favorite was around. Then he leaned forward on his elbows. “You pay your membership, and in return there are a number of privileges. Also exclusive access. In case it’s your thing, I can get you introduced.”

  Malcolm glanced around, then shook his head. “I’ll think about it. Thanks. Nice place. Why’s it called Market Garden?”

  “A walled garden where you can pick and choose.” Percy grinned. “Ruined my marriage in here, so it comes highly recommended.”

  Malcolm very nearly snorted into his vodka. “Well, cheers.” He knocked the vodka back in one gulp, fire scorching his nerve endings and erupting in his stomach, turning the lining to singed ash.

  As the flush flooded his skin, he had an unguarded moment to remember a guileless pair of brown eyes gazing at him. The feeling of Grey Goose getting suckled from his finger grabbed hold of his cock and didn’t let up. Owen. He swallowed hard and wished for another shot.

  “Nice!” Percy said with some serious admiration. “You drinking to forget?”

  Malcolm nodded.

  “Did he cheat on you? Leave you? What?”

  “No.” The voice on the other end of the phone had said something about going to get his dad. Probably one of those pathetic people Owen worked with, taking him in. Well, why not? Owen had a soft spot for all sorts of hard-luck cases. Why shouldn’t someone return the favor? Why shouldn’t someone show Owen the same sort of consideration he seemed to show the whole bloody world?

  “So the problem was . . .?”

  Malcolm scowled. What should he say? The problem was that Owen refused his job offer? Didn’t that make Malcolm sound like a complete git. “None of your fucking business.”

  “So, it’s really hurting,” Percy observed cheerfully. “Sounds like a car crash in the making.”

  Yeah, and you’re happy to jerk the steering wheel around.

  “I’m going to get another drink,” Malcolm muttered, and stood up before his brain could catch up with his body.

  “You can wave them over,” Percy said, but let Malcolm go.

  Malcolm needed just a moment to collect his thoughts. Truth was, he had nobody for the kind of conversation where somebody put his head straight. He had work colleagues, and a personal trainer who called him a loser when he ate two potatoes or a slice of bread, and ex-colleagues.

  But in terms of heart-to-hearts, he was the type who ended up stone cold drunk and pouring his pathetic life story out to a barkeeper who polished glasses. He didn’t do heart-to-hearts. And it had nothing whatsoever to do with his job or his money or the fact that he was a sad pathetic loser.

  Quite possibly as sad and pathetic as Percy, who’d fucked up his marriage in here and then figured becoming a member and introducing people to the club was a great response to that.

  He brought two more shots back when he returned. “Yep, it’s hurting. Maybe I’m just not relationship material.”

  “That’s what I worked out. Eighteen years later.” Percy laughed. “Only person I can make happy is myself. You got to accept that.”

  Malcolm took a gulp of his vodka and tried not to remember the way Owen had looked at him when they’d gone to the Dominion, tacky bronze statue and all. Happy. Yes. You couldn’t make anyone else happy. He tried to tell himself that, and drink through the buzzing little voice saying that, for a few short weeks, he actually had made someone else happy. And Owen had made him happy too.

  Happy enough to want things he’d never wanted. Shit that put a smile on his face on a fucking Monday morning.

  He downed the last vodka, feeling just enough of a buzz to be roused from the self-pity that crept up his neck.

  “Though being single on a good paycheck has its own rewards,” Percy said, opening his hands in a gesture than encompassed the meat market. “Seriously, when it comes to sex, I’d simply hire a pro. They don’t get migraines, either.”

  Malcolm nodded. He absolutely saw the point. He also, clearly, saw that ten years from now, he might be just like Percy—who’d played the game a lot longer than him. No apologies. Very little regard for soft factors like emotions.

  Percy played the game to win and to enjoy himself, and surely, that was much easier. Hell, while Malcolm had slaved away at his first job as the desk junior, he’d admired and envied people like Percy. Right now, he wasn’t so sure that made any sense at all. Though, given enough vodka, possibly coke, or amphetamines, he might get into that space.

  Didn’t work when you tried it, mate.

  Maybe I need to try harder.

  He looked down at his hands—at his fists, rather—and the white knuckles. “That’s . . . actually really helpful.”

  Percy beamed at him. “Splendid.” He reached out to touch Malcolm’s shoulder. “Excuse me a moment.” He stood and sauntered over to a dark-skinned guy propping up the bar. The ex-banker and a dreadlocked . . . rentboy? Now there was a story.

  Malcolm slid out of the booth. Percy didn’t seem to notice (well, he was distracted), so he headed back towards the door—once he’d found it. In terms of health and safety, this place was a nightmare, with no lights guiding him to the exit in the gloom. A large group of people was just coming in, a dozen, maybe fifteen guys, talking animatedly, and Malcolm tried to squeeze through.

  He sidled past one, and found himself face to face with a young man, maybe Owen’s age, with blond hair and wide-set, round blue eyes. The boy smiled ingenuously and ran a bold hand down his chest. “Hello, haven’t seen you
here before.”

  Malcolm stopped for a moment, his mouth dry.

  “I’m, uhm . . .”

  The boy’s hand was on Malcolm’s chest, and suddenly, Malcolm was starved for contact. The vodka had made him sluggish, perhaps, or it had opened his blood vessels up to where the touching was a thing he craved, but that hand, it traveled slow and hard across his pecs, from his right nipple to his left, and then up to his throat.

  “Oh, yes,” the boy said, and for a moment Malcolm was glad that the boy was short too. He was short, Malcolm could overpower him, and that would be that. “I bet you’re a right good hand with a crop, yeah?”

  Malcolm swallowed. “No,” he said, his throat dry. “I actually bottom.”

  He sidled past the surprised boy, past the whole wall of bodies for sale, and out the other side. His flesh cringed at the thought of those empty blue eyes, that knowing touch when he hadn’t wanted it. He hadn’t wanted it. He didn’t want it.

  The room spun as he wove his way in and out, and not even the cold air, slapping his face like an enraged Dom, could clear the miasma of liquor and revulsion from his head.

  This was not his place anymore. He was ashamed it ever had been.

  Beyond Week 6: Surviving the Boyfriend Apocalypse

  Owen didn’t realize he’d left his phone on the table until Oliver walked it to him as he was getting trounced at table tennis by Emmaline. Her husband watched them play, knitting on his wife’s project because, as he said as he sat down, it made sense to share the load since she was giving the sweater to his mother for Christmas.

  Owen had no way to tell them that they were fucking adorable without sounding foolish or condescending or just really really young, so he satisfied himself with grinning and trying not to gloat over how hard ping-pong was not going to be.

  It turned out these people played this game every damned day. They lived it. They discussed politics over it (or at least they had when Owen was waiting to play next), and they talked about their day. Owen found out that Ollie was in love with an older woman (twenty-two!) while Ollie played with his mum, and that George was up for a promotion, but that Emmaline’s hours were so long now that he didn’t want to spend any more time apart.