If It Fornicates (A Market Garden Tale) Page 11

  Spencer swallowed. “No. It’s yours.”

  God, fucking hell, this man was perfect.

  This thing is going to drive me insane.

  Nick snickered over the text from Spencer. That’s the idea, he wrote back. A second later, he added, Have we learned anything from this experience?

  He continued getting himself ready to go to the Garden. He was halfway through shaving when a text message pinged his phone again.

  Don’t come until you tell me to.

  Fast learner. Nick set his phone aside and continued shaving. He hadn’t bothered over the last couple of days, so his skin was less than thrilled, but he’d live. Wasn’t like he got terribly scruffy after only one long weekend.

  Once his face was smooth, he left the bathroom and dressed. As he put his foot up on his desk and laced up his boots, his leather trousers squeaked softly. His jacket rubbed against his skin, the surface still cool. He wore this or something similar to it every time he went to the Garden, but it felt . . . weird tonight. What the hell? He’d taken weeklong holidays more than once, and slipped right back into his black leather without a second thought. After three days, he shouldn’t have batted an eye.

  He finished lacing his other boot and dropped his foot to the floor. Shaking his head, he picked up his keys and headed out. Maybe he just hadn’t rested enough. A weeklong holiday left him refreshed, if a little hungover. Considering he and Spencer had been at it until early this morning, that must have been it. Lack of sleep. Nothing ever fit quite right when the head was still tired and jumbled.

  Which completely explained, of course, why, when he walked into Market Garden an hour or so later, he felt like he’d just arrived on an alien planet.

  That was just bizarre. The back room and the lounge area were like second homes for Nick. He knew every crease in the back room’s hideous wallpaper, and he could practically recite the bar’s top-shelf booze by brand, in order, from left to right and back again. He knew the whores, the customers, the bouncers, and the bartenders. Even the women in the front lounge, and their customers, bouncers, and bartenders.

  So why the hell did everything feel all wrong tonight?

  Ah, look, Jared and Tristan being all cute and gothy, trying to pretend they were as interested in scoring tonight as getting into each other’s leather trousers. He gave a brief nod to the head bartender and took up his position near the bar. A Coke with a slice of lime materialised next to him. Raoul himself was on duty tonight.

  “Good weekend?” Raoul seemed in one of his better moods.

  Nick nodded. “What the doctor ordered. You?”

  Raoul gave a noncommittal shrug. “Finally got the moving sorted. Commuting into London was a fucking pain in the arse.”

  “Brighton, right?”

  Raoul nodded. “City of yoga teachers and barkeeps. Much better up here for money.”

  Yeah. Go where the bankers are. Half the service industry workers followed their prey much like sharks followed herrings . . . or whatever. Cod. City bankers were more like cod—grew fatter with age and no limit to size.

  “What are you doing here on a Tuesday, anyway?”

  “Need some extra cash.” Raoul flexed his biceps. “Getting another tattoo tomorrow.”

  Needles—firmly something for other people. Even his piercings had been more a dare than a desperate need to see a needle pushed through his flesh. “Ah, that explains it.”

  Not really, but Raoul was generally not to be messed with—all six five of him, built like a porn star on steroids. As far as leather daddies went, he was hot. Too bad that Nick didn’t think Raoul had one submissive bone in his body, and it would take a lot of chains to keep him tied down. He’d once amused himself with the image—a strictly academic pursuit, of course. He definitely didn’t fuck Market Garden staff.

  The door opened behind him, and Nick glanced over his shoulder.

  Not a potential client this time, though. Frank, the owner of Market Garden. Máximo Líder himself. Nick turned back and saw Raoul watch Frank closely, still and silent for a few moments before he shook his head and busied himself behind the bar. Nick suppressed a smile. Getting between these two was a bad idea. Frank was just as built and ripped as Raoul, though ten years older. Gentle giants, both of them, but Nick liked having them around in case a drunken john got out of control.

  The door opened again, and this time, a gaggle of bankers spilled in. Three of them, young, moderately hot, and clearly with money burning holes in their pockets.

  Nick sized them up one at a time, looking for the timid one in the bunch. There was always one. Sure, the loud, arrogant alpha could be the subbiest sub within a ten-mile radius, and the timid one could rival Nick for dominance and sadism. But Nick wasn’t in the mood to tangle with an alpha, and if the quiet one turned out to be a Dom, that would show through before too long.

  The loud alpha made himself known in short order, smacking the bar with an open palm and barking an order for drinks while he waved his wallet around. The diamond in his ear was huge and gaudy. Easily the monetary equivalent to three or four rides on Nick’s cock.

  Behind the alpha was the sleaze. Probably worked in sales, by the looks of him. He sized everyone up like Nick was sizing him up, but at least Nick had the decency to keep his assessments off his face. No wrinkled nose, no eye-rolling, no twist of the lips, and most definitely no phony, shit-eating grin when he saw something he liked.

  Oh, don’t even look at me like that, Slick. Nick arched his eyebrow as they held eye contact from across the room. Much to his satisfaction, the sleaze quickly looked away, shifting his attention to the drinks that were appearing in front of the money-waving alpha. He chanced another glance at Nick, and Nick smirked. Think you can handle this?

  Didn’t think so.

  One in every crowd.

  Which left . . .

  The third guy hung back in the shadows, eyes darting around the room. Probably his first time in a place like this. Most guys didn’t look quite so scared out of their minds if they’d been here before.

  Sleazeball handed the timid guy two drinks, and made a sharp gesture towards the thinly crowded lounge. Timid Guy nodded, and started towards the booths and tables.

  Well. Someone was accustomed to being told what to do.

  Nick waited until the guy had found a seat at a booth, and then he made his move. He slid in next to the guy, who willingly moved in further without a hint of protest. He even quickly scooted his drink along. Only then did he really look at Nick, and Nick raised an eyebrow in invitation.

  The guy lifted a hand off the table. “Hi.”

  “Hi.” Nick fixed him with a long stare. “First time here?”

  “Uh, yeah. I guess it shows.”

  Just a little. “Love that tie.” Nick reached over, bored already, and he didn’t even know why. Too easy. Too timid. Maybe not even his type. But no. He’d fucked dozens of this type. They were uncomplicated. Easy money. Not too hard on the eyes. Usually easy enough to blow their minds, take their cash, and walk before midnight. He took the tie, pretending he was feeling the fabric, but grabbed it high up, pulling the man a bit forward. No protest. That pretty much sealed it.

  “We could sort out a quick escape before your friends show up.” Not unlikely the alpha would raise some issues when he tried to separate the weakest from the herd, as it were. That type of guy liked having an audience, and testosterone tended to demand he score first.

  “You . . . work here? I mean, you do, right? What . . . are you offering?”

  Nick grinned. “Pain, if you want it. Either from fucking you hard, or I could bring some toys to play with.”

  The guy cleared his throat. “Should I, um . . .” He looked at Nick’s glass, which was nearly empty. “Should I get you a drink?”

  “If you’d like,” Nick said, still grinning.

  “Uh, what are you drinking?”

  “Cola. Nothing alcoholic.”

  “Okay. I’ll be right back.”
>
  Nick stood to let the guy get up, and chuckled to himself as the church mouse hurried back to the bar. He sat back down while he waited, and kept half an eye on the other two guys at the bar. Looked like they were arguing with Raoul over the preparation of a cocktail. Not a pair Nick wanted to deal with tonight. Especially if they brought their chest-puffing crap over here and tried to elbow their way in. Maybe pry him away from their friend, or talk him into some kind of ménage situation.

  That thought exhausted him. He could barely muster the enthusiasm to face an evening of entertaining the church mouse. As he turned back to watch said church mouse, who was still at the bar, Nick couldn’t help feeling downright tired. Not even a little into this.

  He looked around, keenly thrown off his game. He was bored. He didn’t feel the electric current, that buzz that fuelled him when he needed it. And fucking a guy in that sort of ennui wasn’t going to happen. Dominating him—especially with pain involved—was a bad idea when Nick couldn’t focus, and he wasn’t even sure he could muster the enthusiasm to fuck him well enough to earn his pay.

  Talk about buzz. His trouser pocket buzzed, so he surreptitiously pulled out the phone. Just a text.

  But a text from Spencer was never just any fucking text.

  Thinking of you has never been this uncomfortable.

  Likewise, Nick thought, but for very different reasons.

  But he’d had nights like this before. Everyone did. Didn’t mean he was off the hook for satisfying his clients and earning his keep. Especially since nights like this had been happening all too frequently lately.

  He slid his phone back into his pocket, took a deep breath, and schooled his face into something that balanced devilishness with flirtation as the church mouse returned with a fresh cola. “Thank you.”

  He got up to let the john sit, then sat beside him. “So tell me, what is it you’re looking for?”

  The church mouse gulped. “I . . .” His eyes darted towards his friends. Then he picked up his drink and inhaled almost a third of it in a single gulp. He grimaced—Raoul always made them good and strong—and then pushed the glass away. “I’m not sure, to be honest.”

  Nick gestured towards Alpha and Sleaze. “Their idea?”

  Some colour crept into the church mouse’s cheeks, and he nodded sheepishly.

  Nick sipped his own drink. “You like it kinky?”

  Good thing the church mouse hadn’t been taking a drink just then. He’d have choked. In fact, he choked anyway, even though he wasn’t swallowing a damned thing. “Kinky?”

  “You know.” Nick shrugged. “Handcuffs. Whips. Chains.” He grinned, but wasn’t feeling it. “Being told what to do.”

  All that extra colour in the guy’s cheeks went away. “Um . . .”

  “Hey, hey, hey,” said a loud, slimy voice, and Nick barely kept himself from rolling his eyes as he turned around. Sleaze smirked down at them. “You’ve already picked one out, eh?”

  The church mouse cringed. “Um . . .”

  “Actually,” Nick said, “I came to him.” He smiled as sweetly as . . . well, at least it wasn’t a smirk. Not much of one, anyway. “I always home in on the good-looking ones.”

  Sleaze’s smirk evaporated. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Nick batted his eyes. “That you have good taste in friends?”

  Beside Sleaze, Alpha bristled, glaring at Nick. Then the two of them slid into the booth across from Nick and the bewildered fish out of water.

  Nick turned and cupped the guy’s chin, kissed him lightly on the mouth, and paused long enough to watch the mix of horror, arousal, and what-the-fuck on the guy’s face. Then he let him go. “Shall we go sit somewhere else?” He glanced at the others, then turned to his prey. “Somewhere more private?”

  The church mouse gulped. “O-okay.”

  The other two watched with slack jaws and wide eyes as Nick and their friend left the booth. The church mouse didn’t look at the others, but Nick made sure to offer them the most smug expression he could muster. And just to rub it in, he said, “Good night, lads. It was lovely meeting the two of you.”

  He and his soon-to-be john found a booth on the opposite end of the room. The church mouse slid in first, and Nick sat beside him.

  “You’ve got your hands full with those two, don’t you?” he asked.

  The church mouse shrugged. “They’re not so bad. They’ve just done this sort of thing before. I haven’t.”

  Nick arched an eyebrow. “You’re not a virgin, are you?”

  “What?” The john laughed and shook his head. “No, no. I’ve just never, um, paid for it.”

  Nick inched closer to him, ignoring the heavy, apathetic feeling in his gut. “There’s a first time for everything, isn’t there?”

  “T-true.”

  “So what is it you want? You just want to get fucked for the night? Or do you want something a little . . . kinkier?”

  “I’m not really sure, to be honest.”

  Right then he reminded Nick of Spencer. Of the bewildered look on his face when he’d first wandered into Market Garden with a loud-mouthed friend of his own. He shook the thought away. “What’s the craziest thing you’ve ever done, then?”

  “Craziest?” The church mouse’s eyebrows climbed his creased forehead. “What do you mean?”

  “You know.” Nick shrugged with one shoulder. “You ever let someone tie you up and spank you? Ever blown someone on top of the Eiffel Tower? Anything?”

  The church mouse laughed and held his drink tighter. Nick expected him to insist he’d never done such a thing, but, with a little colour rushing into his cheeks, the guy said, “I once begged my boyfriend to let me suck him off on the train.”

  Nick blinked. “And did he let you?”

  Laughing again, the guy shook his head. “No. But he liked watching me beg, so I did it again when we were home. Then he let me.”

  “You like begging?”

  The church mouse nodded.

  “The submissive type, then.”

  “Uh, yeah. I guess. But that’s all I’ve ever done.”

  “You want to try more, though, don’t you?” Nick schooled his expression, keeping the Dom on his face and pretending that heaviness in his gut wasn’t sinking deeper. “Have someone order you around in the bedroom?”

  The church mouse swallowed. Then he nodded slowly.

  A fresh, unblemished submissive. One with the desire, the eagerness, but no experience. Exactly the kind of john Nick loved to play with.

  And he . . . couldn’t.

  He couldn’t do it.

  Nick took another drink from the cola, and put the glass down. “You want one of the Doms, then.” He nodded towards the corner of the room where a couple of the other kinky rentboys hung out. “They can show you the ropes, as it were.”

  “Really?” The church mouse furrowed his brow again. “You don’t do that stuff?”

  Nick shook his head. “Afraid not.”

  “Oh. Okay. So, um.” The guy looked at the other rentboys. “So, one of them, then?”

  Nick nodded.

  “I’ll go speak to them. Cheers.”

  Nick got up and let him out, and watched as the church mouse meekly approached the group of Doms. He’d have a good time tonight, of that Nick had no doubt.

  But as for Nick, he just didn’t have it in him. Even a more vanilla john than this church mouse was too much for him tonight. The thrill of the hunt, the pre-game mind games, the paid play in a hotel or a flat or the back of a luxury car—none of it appealed to him. For the first time since he’d started working at the Garden, this was the last place in the world he wanted to be. He looked around aimlessly, noticed a look from Raoul that silently asked, You good, mate?

  Nick responded with a half-hearted nod, and the bartender went back to wiping down the bar. Nick glanced at his watch. It was late enough that Spencer would be in bed. No rest for the wicked, and God, but Nick wanted to be there with him, fuck him and then
take the cage off to let him come if he begged nicely enough.

  There. There was the charge he’d been missing all day. The charge he’d needed to get that connection with the church mouse off the ground.

  But shit, thinking of Spencer while fucking somebody else—that felt wrong. Like taking something precious meant for one special person and just throwing it at some random person who happened to be hanging around. No, worse than that. Taking that something precious, and actively seeking someone out so he could just throw it at them. That thought grew barbs and dug in deeper.

  God, he was so fucked. That was bad, really bad. He was reeling—because he couldn’t really dominate somebody when his head was elsewhere. When he wasn’t even present. While he was waiting for a goddamned text. Or imagining Spencer tossing around in his bed, turned on and helpless. Nick might hit too hard. Hit the wrong spot. Miss a clue of real distress. People got injured that way. And while he really didn’t mind selling pain or sex, that was simply not safe. Not right.

  He rubbed the sides of his nose, then caught Frank’s gaze on him. He lifted an eyebrow, and Frank nodded at him in clear invitation, leaning back in the booth where he’d been going through papers, as he sometimes did.

  Nick sauntered over and sat down. “Boss.”

  “How you doing, Nick?”

  “Doing all right.” Nick inhaled deeply. “Personally more than professionally, though.”

  Frank pulled a pen from the inside of his jacket, the motion drawing Nick’s attention to the black T-shirt moulded to the boss’s impressive pecs. His salt-and-pepper hair was buzzed short, and he had the kind of face that went well with pilot shades. Nick always felt he looked like a drill sergeant from an American porn movie about military guys getting it on. Not exactly his scene, though he could appreciate it.

  “You going to tell me?” Frank asked.

  “You asking as my boss?”

  “As somebody who wants to make sure he has an idea what’s going on with people in here.”

  “Gotcha.” Nick folded his hands on the table to keep from giving away the hint of nerves he was feeling. “Don’t have it in me at the moment. I think I need a break.”