English Lads

by Adam Carpenter

  He walked in the opposite direction of Mr. Suit, not really sure where he was headed. Around winding paths, through a smattering of tress and eventually beyond a spraying fountain, he realized he was headed again toward the Marble Arch. He supposed that was as good a location as any, he was out in the open and could be seen by anyone who might want to find him. Which included Mr. Suit, who maybe was going to rendezvous back and retake possession of the knapsack; could be Hunter, meeting up with him after the obvious drop-off; or it could even be the thug, who would then hold him up at gun or knifepoint and demand he hand over the bag of cash. Then what?

  Sweat formed on his brow as he nervously looked about, each of his scenarios continuing to play out in his mind. And wouldn’t you know it, the last of those finally came to fruition. From behind a thick tree emerged the rather menacing figure of the thug. Let’s call him Mr. Thick, since that pretty much described any part of him—neck, arms, legs. He moved slowly, like a tiger on the prowl, and his prey was clear—Jake. Or rather, what Jake was carrying. Keeping his present pace he should be at the Tube stop in five minutes, barring any sudden burst of speed from Mr. Thick. Perhaps he could escape him in the tunnels of London’s Underground? Jake was hardly an expert when it came to losing a tail.

  He made his way toward the Bond Street Tube station just down from the Marble Arch on Oxford Street. Midday, many Londoners were out and about, crowding the narrow sidewalks. Jake hoped the throngs of people heading down the long escalator would help shield him, even as he made his way down the left side of the escalator in an effort to get through the turnstiles faster. He looked back up toward street level, saw Mr. Thick entering the station. Jake turned around, not wanting the guy to see him. His heart beating faster, he finally stepped off the escalator and pulled out his Oyster card, swiping it against the turnstile before making his way into the vast underground system. He wasn’t even sure where to go, all he knew was that it was important to get on the first train to arrive, hopefully before Mr. Thick made his way to the platform.

  Down a long corridor, another endless flight of stairs, Jake could hear a train approaching one of the platforms. The Central Line indicated eastbound and westbound platforms, but Jake couldn’t be sure which side the train was coming into. So he stood in the middle of the corridor, listening, watching, both for the train and Mr. Thick, all to the annoyance of bustling people who skirted around him with scorns and sneers. Finally a train rushed into the station on the eastbound platform. Jake made for the opening doors just as Mr. Thick came off the last step. They were separated by just 20 feet. Mr. Thick’s eyes widened at the sight of his prey, causing Jake to let out a sharp “eek” before he slipped through the doors of the train. The doors closed a second later, with Jake’s knapsack stuck in the door. He couldn’t turn, he just struggled with the bag, hoping it was sturdy and didn’t rip. That would be a scene, a bag full of cash all over the platform being scooped up by greedy people.

  Finally the doors opened again and Jake was able to get the bag in the rest of the way. Then they closed again. Just as Mr. Thick arrived. He was denied entry, and soon the train lumbered out of the station. Jake realized he was free. He had made it, he was clear of his pursuer. He could breathe easier now. So why was his heart still pounding as the train entered and left station after station.? He finally transferred at Notting Hill Gate to the District Line, heading back toward Earl’s Court and eventually, his home station of Putney Bridge. As he emerged onto the platform, he was met with a warm breeze that helped settle his frazzled nerves.

  So, now what? Go home to his flat, await contact from Hunter?

  Surely he wanted the money.

  Just as Mr. Thick did.

  Right now, crossing over the Putney footbridge, the calm waters of the Thames quietly passing under him, he let his guard down. And wasn’t that a bad decision. Because waiting on the far end of the bridge was Mr. Thick himself. Jake paused in mid-step halfway across. How had he known where to go? How did he get here so quickly? A cab through Central London? Did he catch up to him on the Tube? Probably that long wait at Earl’s Court for the Wimbledon train. No matter, the detail wasn’t important, just the mere fact that he was here and waiting for Jake—and the money bag. Should he turn around…would Mr. Thick give chase again? Maybe he should just hand over the money and be done with this whole thing. What did he owe Hunter? Nada.

  Jake continued to walk toward Mr. Thick. The man stood there, large arms positioned on his hips, intimidating but patient. Jake gazed around him for any other people, saw two women approaching from behind. They were busy chatting. Could they help? Would a diversion be possible?

  He slowed his pace, allowing them to catch up to him, to pass him.

  “The guy’s a jerk. You shouldn’t go out with him again,” the one woman said.

  “Yeah, but he’s great in bed,” her companion came back with.

  Obviously they weren’t talking about Hunter, but that’s all Jake could think about. He had a feeling Hunter qualified for jerk status considering the situation he’d put Jake in. Was he great in bed? Well, he didn’t know, but wasn’t that why he was putting himself through all this difficulty? To find out?

  He kept pace with the two women, approaching the stairs at the far end of the bridge. Mr. Thick had started to make his move, coming toward them. Jake felt fresh sweat on his brow. What to do, what to do…

  The women started down the stairs.

  Mr. Thick came toward him.

  Act fast.

  Jake deliberately missed that first step, which sent him flying down the hard, brick stairs. He bounced, the softness of the knapsack saving him from real injury. But his approach had worked, because both women came quickly to his aid, while Mr. Thick shied away, doing his best to distance himself from the ruckus. Eventually, the ladies helped Jake down the final steps and to the safety of the sidewalk. He thanked them, talking up his clumsy nature, etc, but they just smiled and wished him well, and then they were off. Once again Jake was alone with Mr. Thick, separated now by the long brick staircase. Jake took off, his knee in slight pain. But he was almost home…and then what? What was to prevent Mr. Thick from breaking into the house. Were Steven and Jennie home? Just what was the emergency number in London? Not 911…shit, he couldn’t remember.

  Jake quickly made his way to the house on Deodar Road, but instead of going up the stairs he darted sideways, making his way past the garbage bins and into the backyard. He had seen Mr. Thick making his way slowly down the street too, as though he could wait to seize the bag, no hurry, the longer it took the worse it would be for Jake. So Jake kept walking, past the flowerbeds, until he reached the edge of the yard. Now he was trapped.

  Why had he gone this way? What kind of solution was this?

  And then he remembered, almost as though his subconscious had been leading him here. A ladder was attached to the wall, and that ladder led down to the river, a small dock…Steven’s kayak. Jake realized this was his only escape. There was no way Mr. Thick could follow him on the river. So Jake, securing the bag again to his back, climbed over the wall, down the ladder, gently so as not to slip on the wet, ropey rungs. Gradually he made his way to the floating kayak, carefully slipping into the narrow hole. He secured the knapsack on his lap, then grabbed a paddle and unleashed the craft. Soon, he was off, the kayak taking to the smooth waters with ease and grace. He paddled, sweeping himself further out onto the river and away from the banks.

  He looked back at the yard, saw Mr. Thick at the edge of the wall. Hopeless, helpless. Jake had done it, he’d pulled a fast one and managed to escape. Man, he thought, my reward for all this nonsense better be worth it. Jake, gliding gently on the river Thames, took a moment to look into the bag. Like taking a chance on Pandora, he opened the secure flap and began to pore through the contents of the bag one more time. Bundle after bundle of cash, thousands and thousands of pounds, too much to count. But if had to venture a guess, he’d figure he had in his possession about 25,000 p
ounds sterling.

  What he also discovered was a clue.

  Because stuffed inside the bag was a square, cardboard coaster. On the front was the picture of an old-fashioned windmill, as well as lettering in some olde-English-style font that said “The Windmill Pub.” Jake turned it over, and that’s where he found a message, clearly intended for him. It said:

  “You’ll find me here. Hunter.”

  Jake kept paddling, wondering where along the expanse of one of the world most famous river he’d be able to dock. When he planned his trip to London, he’d envisioned taking a boat ride along the Thames. But never had he imagined it this way.

  Maybe it would have been better had his passport not been found.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The Windmill Pub was located on Mill Street, a residential street just off the busy Tottenham Court Road. A weary Jake approached the entrance with trepidation, stealing occasional looks back as though he believed he was still being followed. But no, there was no possible way Mr. Thick could know the meeting place. Jake’s heartbeat had finally returned to normal, and the break of sweat on his brow now had more to do with the warm temperatures than his frantic rowing on the Thames. The entire incident still seemed like something out of a movie. Was he really still carrying around all this cash? Had he really been the object of interest by a so-called bad guy? Had he really pulled off his daring escape? Even if he hadn’t discovered the coaster from the Windmill Pub inside the bag, Jake would still have found himself at some other public establishment. Because he badly needed a drink.

  At the entrance, Jake peered inside. Jake pulled the door open and stepped inside, hit immediately by the yeasty smell of beer. At 3:30 on a Monday afternoon the pub was fairly staid, quiet. A couple of older gentleman sat around the bar while the bartender busily polished glasses. There was no obvious sign of Hunter, but that didn’t mean anything. Slippery guy like him, he could be hiding anywhere, in the men’s room, at a corner table, across the street…or somewhere far, far away from the Windmill Pub. Maybe it wasn’t even a clue.

  No, he was certain. This was where he was supposed to meet Hunter.

  He cautiously made his way toward the long bar, looking around at the mostly empty tables. Still no sign of Hunter. Behind the bar, a man of about 50, weathered skin and a welcoming smile, asked him what he’d like. Jake poured over the taps, not sure which to choose.

  “An ale…uh, the Young’s Pale.”

  The man nodded, pulled the tap. Seconds later Jake had his drink and he took a healthy gulp from the foamy liquid. It tasted great, helped settle those last frayed nerves of his. He tossed down a five-pound note, took his change and his beer and with the knapsack still on his back, sat at a corner table. Across the room he saw a man reading a newspaper—The Evening Standard—his face hidden. As the man turned the page, he looked up from the paper’s crinkled edge. Jake saw the same sparkling blue eyes, the same sexy scruff he’d seen in on that park bench. The one and only Hunter Abbott. Should he go over? Should he wait? Should he just get up and leave and forget this foolish venture? Jake was this close to Hunter, no way could he leave, not without an explanation. Besides, he was far too attracted to him to walk away now. So what to do? He got his answer in the form of a gentle nod from Hunter, as though indicating it was safe for Jake to join him.

  He accidentally scraped the chair on the hard floor as he got up, but no one paid him any mind. Jake grabbed his beer and made his way to the far table, sitting down with his back to the door. The knapsack he placed on the floor between his legs, squeezing it to make sure it stayed there. He didn’t like feeling so vulnerable.

  “You want to tell me what the hell is going on?” Jake said, his voice a whisper.

  “Relax. It’s all good.”

  As though to prove it, Hunter set down the paper, sipping at his beer as though he had no concern in the world. Jake wanted to be pissed off, but damn if the sexy presence of Hunter didn’t make a mess of his emotions. Being so close to him, he could almost feel the sexual energy coming off his body. His sleeves rolled up, hairy arms on display, Jake wanted to reach out, caress them…then maybe pull at the hair in an effort to inflict some pain. A grin appeared on Hunter’s face.

  “So, you had a little adventure?”

  “Went for an impromptu trip on the Thames.”

  Hunted nodded. “Clever escape. Bet Junior was plenty pissed.”

  “Junior? That huge slab of a man is named Junior?”

  “Many blokes from the underworld have ironic names.”

  “Like Hunter?”

  “Oh, that’s not fair. I’m hardly a criminal,” he said, “and besides, a more literal name I could not have.”

  With that he slid his hand across the table, his touch electric.

  “I appreciate your help, Jake. I’d like to thank you.”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “I know of this flat nearby.”

  “So, that’s it? No explanation as to what you’ve gotten me involved in? Just meet at a pub, go upstairs, have a little fun…and then what?”

  “There’s nothing ‘little’ about the fun we could have, Jake.”

  Even with a sip of beer sliding down his throat, Jake felt his mouth go dry. He recalled the way Hunter had pressed against him the night of Nevil’s party, the thick cock he’d felt bulging at the man’s crotch. That night he’d wanted nothing more than to rip Hunter’s clothes off and see just what the man had on offer. Not that Jake didn’t want that now, but he wanted something more. A reason for all this cloak and dagger stuff.

  “Give me something. The meeting in the park…you had that planned all along. I mean, since Friday.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I needed a diversion, a fresh face who no one knew,” Hunter paused, gazing about the room. “I was supposed to hand over that knapsack to Junior, but truth be told, I couldn’t trust him to deliver it to man who wanted it. So I went with plan B.”

  “Me.”

  “Precisely. Look, Jake, you were never in any physical danger…” He paused, looking around at the other patrons. “Can we not do this here? Never know who is watching…or listening. I’ll tell you everything. But away from the pub. Let me leave first, I’ll be waiting on the street corner. Finish your beer, then leave. Give it five minutes. I’ll find you. Then we’ll go somewhere and I’ll tell you why I did what I did. And then I’ll thank you properly for your help. Oh, and I’ll take this now, if you don’t mind.”

  The knapsack of course. Hunter took possession of the money, offered up nothing more. As his hand reached under the table, he swiped first at Jake’s crotch, then for the bag. Both seemed to have grown from the excitement. Smiling, Hunter finished off the remnants of his beer before leaving the newspaper behind and walking out of the pub. Jake didn’t look back to watch him. He couldn’t have left now anyway, even if he wanted. His mind might be swirling with ideas, thoughts, conspiracies, but his cock was as single-minded as always. And it was hard from Hunter’s suggestive swipe, just anticipating what was soon to come. Yeah me, I get to come, his cock seemed to be saying.

  Jake looked up on the far wall of the pub, saw a clock in the form of a windmill. Must be why this place was called The Windmill Pub. Time was ticking forward, just as the sails of the old mill turned, churned. He wished he had time for a second beer, to steel himself for what awaited him next . Hunter Abbott had proved to be more than he had bargained for. Five minutes went by quickly and it was time to see if Hunter was as good as his word.

  * * *

  First thing Jake noticed: the air conditioning was already turned on. But hell, so was he. After walking up three flights of stairs with Hunter ahead of him, checking out an ass tight against the skin of his jeans, Jake was hot and bothered by the heat emanating from both the hallway and the man. So now entering the cool confines of the tiny flat, Jake was grateful for the cooling breeze as it hit his face. A thought occurred to Jake: that Hunter had been here
before their meeting at the pub. Again, planning, anticipating…controlling.

  The flat was tiny, just one room, large picture windows allowing a flood of light into the room, the glare cut by lace white curtains. The place looked decidedly feminine, and while Hunter might be gay, he was no girly-man. Which meant one thing: this wasn’t his place. Jake had to wonder if Hunter even had a permanent residence, or did he slip and slide through life, begging favors and money and sofas from people, using his charm and sex appeal to get what he wanted. Whichever it was, it seemed to work. A stranger’s flat, a bag full of money, a willing participant in acts nefarious and soon, sexual. Or so he hoped. Damn if Hunter wasn’t slippery enough to allow a promise to go unfulfilled.

  Still, questions flooded Jake’s mind and he hoped that finally he was going to get some answers. Hunter had promised that the moment they were hidden from the world and in seclusion inside this flat he would get his answers. What was the money for? Who was chasing after him? And why? How did Jake figure into it? Which question to ask first was Jake’s only problem. Wait, correct that, the other problem was suddenly before him, and truth be told, problem wasn’t exactly the right word that came to mind. Distraction worked, and Jake was convinced that’s what Hunter was going for. Hunter, closing the door behind Jake, had already begun to undo the zipper of his jeans. Jake could already see the impressive bulge straining to be released.