Peepshow

by Clare London

  “Sure,” Robbie said.

  “I know,” Simon said with an uncharitable smirk.

  Robbie stood to get another round of drinks. “Want to ask him over here tonight?” he asked loudly.

  Ken winced at everyone around them hearing his business. “I don’t think—”

  Si thrust his mobile under Ken’s nose. “Would you like to call him?”

  “Shit, Si.” Ken shook his head wearily. “No.”

  “Okay.” Simon gave a mischievous roll of the eyes. “I’ll call him. See if he wants to come out and meet us for a drink.” He leaped up from his seat and went outside the pub where there’d be less distracting background noise.

  “Si seems pretty keen,” Robbie said aimlessly. “It’s ‘Ollie this, Ollie that’ with him.”

  Ken sighed and concentrated on his beer. Things were going too fast and too weird for him, but… what would be, would be. He had to admit a frisson of excitement at the thought of meeting Ollie Robinson. No, to be honest, that wasn’t really it. He wanted to meet Ollie, but only to see if he was the mystery Waiter. Oh, what a tangled web we weave.

  Simon pushed back through a group of student drinkers behind their table and thudded back down on his seat. “He can’t make it tonight. And he’s working tomorrow night as well. I arranged to meet him here at the pub on Wednesday evening.”

  “That’s fine for Ken,” Robbie said.

  Ken thumped him half-angrily on the arm. “I can answer for myself, you berk. Yes, it’s fine. I’m… well, I’m working tomorrow night as well.”

  “That’s a happy coincidence,” Si said.

  Ken just nodded in agreement, not trusting a reply. You have no idea.

  TUESDAY NIGHT Ken arrived for work in clean, pressed trousers and his smartest dress shirt.

  Suzie turned as he strode into the viewing room and dropped his backpack onto a spare space on the desktop. “My God, have you been for an interview before coming here?”

  Ken laughed and flushed. “No such luck. This is too much, isn’t it?” He’d spent an hour in his room deciding which shirt to wear from his meagre collection, and then he’d only just stopped short of adding a tie. What was he thinking? That the camera would suddenly become a two-way connection? But tonight he’d wanted to look his best, God knows why.

  She laughed too, shaking her head. “No one’s here to see, Ken, so wear what you like. You look good, and it’s nice to see men making an effort. My brother never changes out of paint-splattered sweatpants.” Suzie’s brother was a plasterer and decorator, and her ever-trusty babysitter of an evening. Ken chatted to her about her toddler son for a while; then she shrugged into her coat and left for home.

  Ken drank his coffee, ate a sandwich. He watched a car stall on the road outside the Moroccan café and the female driver flag down another motorist for a jump start. It took her and the young male driver a long time to get her car started again, during which time Ken saw them laughing and eventually exchange phone numbers. A woman hurrying out of the newsagents tripped on the step and dropped her bag of groceries. The owner’s wife—with the same style of shiny trousers but apparently not the same scratching habit—came rushing out to help her. Behind the fried-chicken fast-food outlet, two foxes had a snarling confrontation over the remnants found in a discarded bargain bucket.

  Nothing else was happening.

  Ken chewed some gum and read a few pages of his book, until he realised he’d skimmed the same paragraph four times. He played a drawing game on his phone with Joe, until Joe texted him to complain Ken wasn’t bloody concentrating and he was going back to Reddit. Joe made it abundantly clear that his social media accounts were hugely more exciting than Ken’s current situation, and to be honest, Ken had to agree with him. He wondered about calling Robbie or Si, but he wasn’t really meant to spend time on personal calls, in case… well, in case of the ballistic missile, he supposed.

  And then Waiter came out the back door of the restaurant.

  Ken nearly choked on his gum as he straightened up quickly in his chair. If he’d cared, he’d have been alarmed at how quickly his heartbeat sped up. The man walked quickly and purposefully towards the hidden corner of the yard. Only a few minutes of break left? Or was he trying to keep away from the cameras? Or….

  Waiter paused just before he moved out of camera range. Ken only had a view of his back by this time, but Waiter had shoved his hands in his trouser pockets, and the way it tightened the fabric over Waiter’s arse…. Well, Ken wasn’t complaining.

  Or was this another tease?

  Whatever the reason for the sexy view, Ken’s groin was definitely interested in the effect. His cock warmed the inside of his boxers as it filled out. Ken couldn’t resist leaning his palm on his lap, feeling the hardening length, wanting to slip open his zip and slide his hand in to relieve the ache all through his lower body. Shit. He flushed, despite the fact there was no one to see his embarrassment. But jerking off was pretty much on the top of the list of things he shouldn’t be doing on the job, much higher up than making private calls or burying his nose in another doorstop volume of Game of Thrones.

  Waiter shuffled about, his back half in view and his head turned away. His hands were hidden in front of his body, and he rested his weight against the side of the nearest bin. His stance was for all the world like a casual smoker’s, snatching a few moments’ relaxation. But there was no telltale trail of smoke rising up. What was he doing?

  For a brief moment, he turned his head again, back towards the restaurant—and into Ken’s view. Ken found himself leaning into the screen, peering to see if he recognised the blurred features. Was that a pair of glasses or just a glint in the man’s eyes? Ken cursed the poor quality of that TV for probably the nine millionth time.

  Something glimmered on the screen just above Waiter’s chin. Ken’s eyes hurt from squinting. Had he just wet his lips? Ken could see the flicker of a tongue, the movement of Waiter’s hand as he lifted his fingers to his mouth. He was licking his fingers again. Maybe he’d just had another of those cruelly sticky snacks. Ken’s groin was aching. He reckoned he must have been really wicked in a previous life—maybe two lives—to deserve torture like this. Pity he couldn’t remember enjoying any of it.

  Waiter’s hand left his mouth and hovered around his waist. He’d turned his head away from the camera again, but his hips had twisted back towards it. Slim hips, long legs with a muscular look. Ken wondered if Ollie Robinson had ever been that tall. Could a guy add six inches to his height in two years? Ken’s e-mail was plagued by plenty of spam offering three to eight inches in the lap area, but rarely in leg length.

  Waiter’s hand patted almost aimlessly at the front of his trousers. He palmed the shape there, rubbing it gently up and down. He was touching his dick, no question. Wrapping his fingers around the width of it, feeling the thickness. Ken moistened his own lips and wished he’d brought a bottle of water with him tonight. If he didn’t use it for the dryness in his mouth, he could douse his growing temperature by pouring it over his groin. Then worry later about how to explain it to Charlie when he arrived to take over.

  Meanwhile, Waiter shifted his legs slightly wider apart, steadying his weight between them. He bent his elbow and his hand dived down into…. Ken gaped. Into his trousers. Inside. Downward. Deep downward. Even if Ken didn’t have a full view of the man’s body, there was no ignoring that move. No young man of any level of sexual self-awareness could mistake that pastime. And as Ken watched, waiting for his brain to catch up with the truth from his eyes, Waiter started to move his hand up and down again—but this time from inside his clothes. His back bowed and his shoulders stiffened against the bin. His knees pumped very gently as his hips thrust in time with his hand.

  Oh my fucking God. Ken found his own hand in his lap. His gaze was fixed on the screen, but he had no trouble finding the button and zip by touch and releasing them quickly. The relief of grasping his erection was astonishing. As Waiter’s body jerked in the dar
k, so did Ken’s in the dimmed light of the security room. I’ve a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore. He tried to be quiet, partly because the sensible side of his brain was appalled at what he was doing and was warning him about imminent discovery, but also partly because Waiter’s pleasure was all happening in silence too. It was like solidarity. Lust and need and relief and a weird kind of communion, even though there was no way he could know….

  Shut the hell up, brain! Ken finally surrendered trying to be logical or rational and just tightened his grip on his cock. He prayed his concentration would hold out long enough to watch Waiter to the end. His head was already swimming, and tears of excitement wet his lashes, misting his view.

  Waiter started to sag, leaning more heavily against the bin. If he sinks to his knees…. Ken didn’t dare finish the thought. His throat was tight and his palms sticky. They slid up and down his cock with a terrible, thrilling ease. He hadn’t felt this weird mix of nervousness and excitement since he first saw Jimmy Evans in his school cricket whites and had to cover his lap with his own cap to hide his sudden, sweetly painful erection. It’s like I love this pain a little too much. His panting was getting embarrassingly loud, but he couldn’t have torn his gaze from that particular screen, even if an escaped rhino had burst through the shutters of the chemist at the other end of the shopping centre and started guzzling the stock of diet chocolate.

  Waiter gave a visible shudder. On the CCTV, the middle of the picture rippled and went briefly out of focus. Ken almost yelped aloud. Looked like Waiter was close to coming. So was Ken. So, so close. Anything can happen in the next half hour! He leaned his free arm on the desktop to help balance himself as he pumped through his damp, aching fist. He’d have to give up this job. It wasn’t good for his nerves. Or his libido. And he was worried he was turning into a pervert.

  For a second he stilled. His heart stuttered with shame even as it thumped with excitement. Was he really a pervert? Jerking off with a guy on a screen, when one of them didn’t know the other was doing the same? Ken was like that lunatic in the movie Sliver. He’d watched it with Joe years ago. Joe had been lusting openly over Sharon Stone, while Ken found himself waiting impatiently for the next time Tom Berenger came on screen. But the theme was a guy watching someone through CCTV without their knowledge or permission. What if Waiter found out Ken was watching him?

  Before Ken could examine this confusion properly, his gaze was caught again. Waiter had lifted another inch on his toes and his shoulders were stretched back, as if drawing out his ecstasy. His whole body jerked once, then again, and then he lowered back into his normal stance. The screen shivered momentarily out of focus again, but his head had turned back towards the camera. As the picture settled again, Ken caught a glimpse of his mouth, open in what looked like a gasp, and his eyes like bright, glittering beads among the grey shadows.

  And then he grinned and winked again at the camera.

  Ken groaned and came, spilling hot and wet all over his clenched fist and between his fingers. The chair rocked on its wonky wheels and caught the edge of the desk, spinning the coffee cup off onto the floor. Ken’s head dropped, his chin to his chest as he wheezed and tried to steady his breath. His heart was beating too fast, and the remains of his coffee had splashed over his shoes. And he didn’t care one tiny, single, bloody, heart-wrenching iota.

  But he did feel a sudden, irrational anger at Waiter—at this man, hiding in shadows, playing with himself, playing with Ken. Did he have any idea who was watching him? Did he care? Did he know what he was doing to Ken?

  It was unfair. Yet Ken had brought it on himself, he knew that. He was the one spying, using the view for his own excitement. Even if the guy seems to ask for it? Yeah, he told himself fiercely, his skin still tingling with the blessed shock of climax. The guilt was all Ken’s fault. “Just what do you think you’re doing, Dave?” echoed in his mind in that creepy computer voice from 2001: A Space Odyssey. But the accusation could be levelled at him, Ken.

  He reached for the box of cheap tissues Charlie had left last week, when he was sickening for a cold. Ken couldn’t help but wonder what exactly he was sickening for.

  WEDNESDAY NIGHT loomed like some kind of ominous storm cloud, but instead of threatening rain, it threatened… what? Ken wasn’t altogether sure. The horror. The horror!

  He was still at home when Si texted to ask where the hell was he? They were all waiting for him, plus it was his round and Robbie was gasping for another drink. Ken rolled his eyes and turned off his phone. He tried three or four shirts before he found one that felt right, a balance between smart, dress-to-impress, and yet normal enough to stave off Robbie’s hoots of derision. He swept his hair back, then smoothed it down over his forehead, but neither style looked right. He had a dark lock that curled out from his parting in an awkward direction, and it never lay flat. His eyes always seemed too small, and there were bags underneath them from his late-night shifts. And there was that irritating spot on the outer edge of his cheekbone, as in We’re not supposed to talk about the bloody mole, but there’s a bloody mole winking me in the face—Ken frowned and stepped away from the bathroom mirror. For God’s sake. He was never going to be underwear model material, was he? And it was just a drink down the pub with his mates. Yeah, right. He pulled on his coat and hurried out of the house before he was distracted into worrying about anything else.

  The Grove was already crowded when he got there, even though it was midweek. Sometimes they had an open mike night on Wednesdays, and a crowd from the university often attended. Robbie liked to grumble about flaky music students as much as flaky arts ones, but he always arrived early to grab a table near the small stage. Ken wriggled his way through chatting and laughing customers and spotted Robbie and Simon on his way to the bar. Si waved over to him, beckoning for him to hurry up and join them. There were two other men sitting at the table, both of them with their backs to Ken. He tried to see who they were, but then a large man with a red face and spiky hair pushed past with a tray full of pints, obscuring Ken’s view. By the time the man cleared out of Ken’s way, the unknown bloke who’d been sitting the farthest from Simon had gone off somewhere, and the other had turned towards Si and was leaning over his glass so Ken could only see the top of his head. Which looked pretty blond to him—

  “Mate?” The barman waved a hand in front of Ken’s face. “You drinking or holding up the bar?”

  Ken apologised for daydreaming and ordered a drink for himself. He’d join in the next round as soon as he’d settled in. As he made his way over to the table, a young female singer/songwriter was tapping the microphone nervously up on the small stage. Funny thing was, Ken felt a bit nervous himself, and he wasn’t a performer.

  “About bloody time,” Robbie announced in his best booming voice as Ken approached. “Marta’s bloody magnificent. You need to hear her set.”

  “Ken, sit there,” Simon said peremptorily, waving at the now empty seat on the other side of the new—yes, definitely blond—man at his side. “And say hi to Ollie.”

  As the man sitting beside Simon started to turn towards him, Ken realised he was holding his breath. He waited for the bolt from the blue. The emotional blow right between the eyes. He’d always imagined this kind of moment, when the wide-screen movie shot suddenly shrank to a single, eye-sized portrait of one person, one face, one amazed, hopeful shock of recognition—

  Luke, I am your father!

  And immediately, with an equally vivid shock of disappointment, he realised it wasn’t going to be that moment.

  “Hi, Ken. Remember me?” Ollie Robinson grinned up at him, the lights glinting off his very fashionable glasses, his clear-skinned face shining a little with sweat, and his well-rounded body clothed in a pink-striped sweater and designer jeans. No lean, lithe body. No dark hair, glittering eyes, and mischief in the smile. No black work trousers stretched tight over a muscled arse….

  Ken dropped heavily onto the chair. “Hi, Ollie. Of course I do.”
/>   “No, he doesn’t,” Robbie announced gleefully.

  “I told you Ollie had changed,” Simon said. “For the better, sorry,” he added quickly, glancing at Ollie in alarm.

  Ollie just laughed. “Kind of you to say so, Si. I was a hell of a lump at school, wasn’t I? Not that I ever expected to look as good as you.”

  Simon flushed deeply and laughed much too loudly. Ken caught Robbie’s gaze, and they both raised their eyebrows.

  “So, Ollie,” Robbie said. “Where are you working?”

  “At the Thai Pin,” Ollie said, smiling broadly. “Ludicrous name, isn’t it? Half the kitchen staff aren’t Thai at all, though they don’t let me cook, of course. But I’ve been helping out on the business side of things instead—I’m putting in a new network for them next week, with full accounting software. It’s an area I’m interested in, career-wise.”

  “Fascinating,” Simon said, eyes wide.

  “It’s my shout,” Robbie said, grinning at the pair of them. He hauled himself up out of his chair, bumping into a couple of chatting women at the next table. He had a frustrating few moments while he disentangled his ankle from one of their handbags; then he set out for the bar.

  Oh God. Ollie and Si were yammering on about school days, the essential ingredients of Thai food, which of the two clubs in town won on style points, and whether Celebrity Big Brother really had exhausted itself for good. Ken was thankful to be ignored by them for a few moments. He needed to catch his breath. It was like suddenly being in a small sealed bubble in the middle of the noisy pub. The customers were lively, the music was great but loud, and he was in the middle of what promised to be a really embarrassing situation. All he could do was withdraw for a while and regroup.