Rattrap

by L. M. Somerton

  Beau chuckled. “They’ll take you out of here in a box, boss, we all know that. Sooner or later this guy is going to make a mistake, they all do eventually, you know that. He’ll get complacent, then he’ll get careless.”

  “No doubt,” Archer agreed. “The only question is how much this idiot is going to escalate before the boys in blue are able to arrest his ass and toss it into a nice, fireproof cell.”

  Beau grunted. That had them all worried. Every fire put the entire crew in danger, but those started by a criminal who delighted in making things burn were far more risky. “He’s already getting more ambitious. Allotment sheds first then that derelict fish-packing place, this time a house. The property might have been boarded up and empty but it was in a terrace and there were plenty of people around. A residential area. Jesus, if we hadn’t arrived as quickly as we did, it could have been much worse. As it is, two families are going to be living in temporary accommodation for a while, until their homes are cleaned up. You know how long smoke damage takes to deal with.”

  “I do. Fucking carbon sticks like glue to every available surface. You’re second in command. You’re closer to the men than I am. How are they dealing with this?” Archer asked.

  “Well, we’ve assumed that we had a serial bug on our hands for a while now. The old hands are angry but professional. The newbies are scared and trying not to show it. Every shout that comes in they half expect to be another nasty one and that puts them on edge. Being off for the next forty-eight hours will help. Fatigue makes everything seem worse than it is.” Beau rolled his neck and listened to the cracking joints.

  “You’re a little haggard yourself, Beau. Are you worrying about the same thing I am?”

  Beau frowned at the cryptic comment but nodded. “All the shouts that can be attributed to the firebug have been during our watch.”

  “Could be a coincidence,” Archer said, tapping his pen on the desk.

  “And I might meet a nice girl, settle down, produce a couple of kids and adopt a mutt from Battersea.”

  Archer snorted. “Pigs might levitate. Maybe the next forty-eight hours will prove us wrong. If the next watch find spray-painted messages on the walls, we’re off the hook. If not, we have a serious problem. In the meantime go get cleaned up, find yourself a nice young man and get laid. It’ll do you good.”

  “I might just do that, though I can’t guarantee he’ll be ‘nice’.” Beau checked his watch. “Nine o’clock. Shit. I don’t suppose I’m getting paid overtime for this, am I?”

  Archer had a bout of mild hysteria, and Beau took that as his cue to leave the room. As he walked down the corridor toward the showers he could hear laughter and chatter coming from the recreation room. The night shift were settling in and a tempting aroma of cooking food permeated the air.

  “Beef stew and dumplings.” Beau identified the meal under preparation. His stomach rumbled. “Dinner at the club, I think.” The smell made up his mind and he changed his plan for a quiet night in. In the locker room he stripped off his grimy kit and dumped it in the laundry crate. The big plastic bin was almost full, testifying to the fact that his watch had already passed through and the rest of the team were on their way home. Naked, Beau padded to his locker and grabbed his washbag. He stank of smoke and sweat and couldn’t wait to get the acrid stench out of his nostrils.

  One of the things the fire service managed to get right was the shower facilities. Endless hot water and powerful water pressure were essential at the end of a long, dirty shift. Beau scrubbed away some of the stress of the day along with the grime. He shampooed his hair twice and let his head hang as mucky water sluiced down the drain. Jet-black strands hung in front of his face, a little longer than regulations strictly allowed. Tiredness washed over him and he pushed it away. His two days off couldn’t come soon enough.

  Beau dressed quickly. He hadn’t planned to go to the club that night so didn’t have his leathers or even a dressy pair of trousers, but his jeans were clean and the pale blue button-down shirt he wore was smart enough. Carey Hoffman, the owner of The Underground, didn’t enforce a dress code, but very few members showed up in casual clothes. Beau only intended to go there to eat, so he wasn’t too concerned about fitting in. He pulled on his jacket, slammed his locker door decisively and left.

  From the fire station it was a thirty-minute walk across Westminster Bridge, around the Houses of Parliament to The Underground. Beau took his time, enjoying the cool night air. He loved the relative calm of London by night as opposed to the noisy bustle of the day. There were still plenty of tourists around snapping pictures of the Thames and Westminster Abbey. Big Ben told him it was nine-thirty as he made his way into quieter streets and eventually to The Underground’s discreet entrance. The only indication that the building housed a club was the presence of a couple of impressively muscled men loitering on the pavement. Beau nodded to the bouncers, flashed his membership card and went inside.

  Beau smiled at the pretty, slender redhead manning reception. “Hi, Christian. I haven’t seen you for a while. How are you doing?”

  “Very well thank you, Mr. Beauman. I only work a couple of evenings now that I have a decent day job.”

  “Becket told me about your gig at the Natural History Museum. It sounds great. You must be over the moon that he’s made a full recovery since the Temple Church bomb. He’s a lucky man.”

  “Thanks to you.” Christian had a pretty flush on his delicate cheekbones. “He wasn’t the best patient in the world while he was injured. I think sheer bloody-minded determination got him well. He’s here tonight, waiting downstairs for me to finish my shift. I know he’d love to see you.”

  “I won’t be staying long, I’m just here to eat,” Beau said.

  “I’ll call him if you want some company?” Christian picked up a slim phone from the desk and paused, waiting for instruction. He was so eager to please, Beau gave in.

  “Okay, but only if he’s not busy. I don’t want to drag him away from friends or anything.”

  Christian gestured to the lift doors. “You go on down. I’ll let Becket know that you’re going to the restaurant.”

  Beau took the lift down a level and walked out into the warmth of the club lounge. He waved to a couple of people he knew but didn’t stop. As he strolled through to the restaurant he relaxed. The familiar atmosphere, low background music and chatter of the club always had the same effect. Beau felt at home, and all the remaining tension of the day melted away. A smile crept up on him.

  It wasn’t that late and the restaurant was three-quarters full. Beau waited less than five seconds before a leather-kilted server scurried toward him clutching a menu.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting, Sir.” The young blond blinked up at Beau anxiously. Beau gave him a reassuring smile.

  “I just got here, Benjy, and I’m not in a hurry. I’d like a table for two if you have one, please.” Beau always made a point of being polite and attentive to the service staff at the club. He tried to remember all their names, and the beaming smile he got from Benjy made the effort worth it.

  “Please follow me, Sir.”

  Beau fancied that there was an extra swing in Benjy’s hips as he made his away across the room to a quiet corner table. Wearing just the club uniform of a short leather kilt and collar, Benjy had a trim body and a sweet face. Beau could appreciate the appeal, but Benjy wasn’t his type, too confident. Beau preferred less certainty. He enjoyed coaxing responses from a sub. He sat down and took the menu that Benjy offered him.

  “What’s good tonight, Benjy?”

  The server’s brow crinkled in concentration. “Well, Mr. Zachary said that the seafood risotto was ‘orgasmic’. Mr. Edwards ordered a second portion of the steak and kidney pudding so that must be good. Oh, and Mr. Colton’s sub seemed very happy when his Master fed him the chicken paprika.” He cocked his head to one side. “But I love everything on the menu. I’m not helping, am I, Sir?”

  “I’ll take the risotto.” Beau
winked at Benjy, and the server blushed to the roots of his hair. “And a bottle of sparkling water, a glass of ice and a slice of lime.”

  Benjy nodded.

  “Oh, could you bring a second glass? Mr. Becket may be joining me.”

  “Yes, Sir. I won’t be long.”

  Beau watched as Benjy shimmied through the tables toward the kitchen.

  “Cute, isn’t he?” Dave Becket approached Beau and extended his hand.

  Beau shook it warmly. “Nice to see you, Dave, and yes, he is, if you like that kind of thing.”

  “And you don’t?” Becket pulled out a chair and took a seat.

  “You know my taste runs more to cute little spy-geeks.”

  Becket rolled his eyes. “It’s been four months since the fire and you haven’t so much as taken Marty for coffee. If you don’t take the plunge soon he’ll be snapped up by someone else.”

  “Is he seeing anyone?” Beau snapped, a surge of jealousy rushing through him.

  “Not that I know of, so relax. He’s shy and, as far as I know, is not in the habit of frequenting bars or clubs.”

  Beau’s knee bounced in agitation. He held it still. Benjy returned with their drinks, placed them on the table and waited.

  “Do you want anything to eat, Dave?” Beau asked.

  “I had something earlier, but you could bring a bowl of nachos and a dish of sour cream, Benjy.” He didn’t speak again until Benjy moved away. “So why haven’t you asked young Marty out? You’re not the shy type.”

  “No, I’m not, but he is. I’ve been thinking about it a lot. I’m a Dom through and through, Dave, and you told me that Marty has no experience of the scene. I don’t want to scare him off. I suppose I’ve been waiting for the right time, but after the day I’ve had, I’ve realized that waiting is stupid. I need to grasp the nettle and hope it doesn’t sting too badly.”

  Becket sipped his drink. “Just take it slow. Marty may not know it, but he’s just as submissive as you are Dominant. There’s a spark in him, though, and he’s very bright…he’ll overanalyze everything you say just because that’s what he does. I asked him last week why he preferred tea to coffee and ended up getting a lecture on the health benefits of different levels of caffeine, the use of plantation slave labor in India and South America and the entire history of the East India Company.”

  Beau swirled his water and listened to the clink of ice against the glass. “I have a really nice new gag that I haven’t used yet.”

  Becket laughed. “Well it could come in handy.”

  Their food arrived and Beau remembered just how hungry he was. Conversation took second place for a while as he appeased his neglected stomach.

  “Bad incident today then?” Becket asked, dipping a nacho in his bowl of thick cream.

  Beau glanced around to check that no one else was close enough to overhear their conversation. He knew what Becket did for a living and had no qualms about talking to him about the fire, but it was confidential information as far as anyone else was concerned.

  “No fatalities or anything like that, but we have a serial firebug on our hands and he’s only striking when my watch is on duty. He’s escalating and I’ve got a bad feeling about this one. Sooner or later someone’s going to get hurt…or worse.” He pushed his plate to one side. “This one’s clever…calculating. He’s playing a game, and at the moment, he has the upper hand. The police have nothing concrete.” Beau massaged his neck, digging his fingers in deep. “He’s leaving messages at the scenes as well. At the earlier locations, we’ve only found paint traces but more recently we’ve had the words ‘see me dance’ in red paint sprayed where we can’t miss them.”

  Becket’s eyes darkened. “The world’s full of fucking psychos. You need anything, you let me know. It’s not my jurisdiction, but I can always pull in a few favors for a friend.”

  “Thanks, Becket, I appreciate that.” Beau paused. “How about Marty’s phone number for starters? Or I suppose I could just stalk him outside your not-so-secret offices.”

  Becket rolled his eyes. “I can’t hand out his number as you well know, but I’ll give him yours and make sure he rings you, how does that sound?”

  “Sounds great. Thanks, Dave, you’ve got my contact details, haven’t you?”

  Becket nodded.

  “I’m not working for the next forty-eight hours,” Beau added. “First weekend I’ve had off for weeks, the rota has not been playing in my favor, which is why I’m going home to crash. It’s been a fucking long week.” Beau smiled as Christian came toward the table. “You’re a lucky man, Dave.”

  Christian moved like a dancer. He still wore his club uniform, the leather trousers and snug T-shirt accentuating his slender form perfectly.

  Becket spotted his lover and his face lit up with pleasure. Christian knelt at his side, head demurely bowed.

  “Hello, love. All done for the night?” Becket stroked Christian’s dark red locks.

  “Yes, Sir.” Christian peeked up from beneath his lashes.

  Beau watched the exchange of heated glances between his friends and rose from the table.

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  About the Author

  Lucinda lives in a small village in the English countryside, surrounded by rolling hills, cows and sheep. She started writing to fill time between jobs and is now firmly and unashamedly addicted.

  She loves the English weather, especially the rain, and adores a thunderstorm. She loves good food, warm company and a crackling fire. She's fascinated by the psychology of relationships, especially between men, and her stories contain some subtle (and some not so subtle) leanings towards BDSM.

  Email: lmsomerton@aol.com

  L.M. Somerton loves to hear from readers. You can find her contact information, website and author biography at http://www.pride-publishing.com.

  Also by L. M. Somerton

  The Portrait

  Black Dog

  Stroke Rate

  Mountain Rescue

  Tales from The Edge: Reaching the Edge

  Tales from The Edge: Living on the Edge

  Tales from The Edge: Dancing on the Edge

  Tales from The Edge: A Double-Edged Sword

  Tales from The Edge: Rough Around the Edges

  Tales from The Edge: Scorched Edges

  Investigating Love: Rasputin’s Kiss

  Investigating Love: Evil’s Embrace

  Investigating Love: Tarot’s Touch

  The Wyverns: Mantrap

  The Wyverns: Deathtrap

  What’s his Passion?: Picturing Lysander

  What’s his Passion?: Testing Lysander

  Racing Hearts: Keeping the Luck In