Capture & Surrender Read online

  He pulled into his driveway and swerved around the Mini already parked there.

  Emily was sitting in the tiny black car with the white rally stripe and—fake, obviously—race number in black and white. Frank faintly remembered her current boyfriend was a grease monkey who loved customising cars. That Mini was tricked out and a lot fiercer than such a dinky car had any right to be.

  Frank killed the engine and stepped out. Brandon flanked him.

  Emily slipped her phone into her pocket as she stepped out of the car. “Hey, Frank. How are you doing?”

  “Doing good. You?”

  “I’m ravenous.” She spoke without a hint of British reserve.

  “As am I.” Frank smiled at her. “And I brought another mouth for you to feed. This is Brandon, my American friend. I thought maybe another built male worshipping at your feet after the meal might go down well.”

  She laughed and offered her hand. “Hi, I’m Emily. I sometimes feed Frank and his friends.”

  Brandon shook her hand. “I was a soldier long enough to know better than to turn away free food. Especially if it’s not mess hall food.”

  “Well, I can’t promise you—”

  “Oh, stop being so modest, you twit.” Frank nudged her shoulder and looked at Brandon. “Don’t listen to her. This woman’s cooking would make Gordon Ramsay weep.”

  “So would my foot in his bollocks,” she muttered.

  Brandon laughed. “I would pay good money to see that.”

  “Obviously you two are going to get on like a house fire.” Frank shook his head. “Not sure if it’s a good idea, putting you in the same room.”

  “Only one way to find out.” Emily pointed at the house. “You going to let us in, or do I have to cook out here? Can’t promise the ciabatta will be any good if I cook it on the hood.”

  “All right, all right. Come on.” He glanced at her car. “You need help bringing everything in?”

  “I’m not going to turn down the assistance of a strapping young boy.” She circled around to the boot. “Or his elderly friend.”

  “Quiet, you.”

  They unloaded the Mini, which took them two trips apiece. How she fit that much into a car that small mystified Frank; the boot was the size of, well, one of Brandon’s laced-up combat boots, and yet it somehow contained enough food to feed half of London. If she ever got a larger vehicle, she could probably open up a moving supermarket.

  Brandon insisted on helping in the kitchen, but Frank persuaded him to go grab a shower first.

  “So.” Emily eyed the empty staircase after Brandon had gone up. “He’s your . . . friend?”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  “Mm-hmm. Isn’t he a little young for you?”

  “He’s legal.” Frank shrugged. “And quite . . .” Experienced with things you and I wouldn’t wish on anyone else. “He’s mature.”

  “Oh, sure, that’s a good match for you.” She sniggered. “But seriously, is he—I mean, does he know?”

  “Of course he knows.” Frank barely managed to not snap. “Do you think I’d keep that from someone if I was seeing him?”

  “No, you wouldn’t.” She arranged the implements she needed—a whole range of knives, a pile of bowls—moving quickly but without appearing hectic in the least. “He seems nice.”

  “He is. And we’re in that weird phase where we’re kind of casual, but might be moving to kind of serious.”

  She smiled. “Butterflies and all?”

  Frank nodded and crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Yeah. Butterflies and snakes and fear and all.”

  Her blue eyes were suddenly soft. “Try to be happy, Frank. You’re not alive to punish yourself.”

  Try to be happy. Try to grow wings and fly. Same difference.

  “I’m trying. He’s the best thing that has happened to me in a long time.”

  She reached out and touched his shoulder. “That’s good enough for me.” She pulled back and gave him a couple of limes. “Wash your hands and then zest and juice those.”

  They were happily working away when Brandon came back down, wearing jeans and a fresh US Army T-shirt, hair damp.

  Frank waved him in. “Your turn. I’ll go get changed.”

  Brandon took over, chopping courgettes while Emily was butterflying a pile of chicken breasts.

  Frank hurried upstairs and went into the en suite for a very quick shower, the room still humid from Brandon’s shower. The quick clean-up reminded him of what they’d done, that delicious passiveness that Brandon had managed to get out of him, and that now lingered much more closely under the surface than before.

  After all that shit in his past, all the things to be defensive about, only Andrew had taught him that that wasn’t actually a weakness, merely a complementary aspect of him—the flip side of all his strength, as Andrew had called it. They’d negotiated power and positions for most of their relationship, which had kept things interesting. Nothing anybody took for granted, nothing given. In that kind of framework, exploring what he wanted, what he could do, what he could accept being done to him, had been entirely safe. And then the illness had shattered the only safe space he’d ever known.

  And now there was the possibility of having that safe space again. Brandon may have been young, but he was no kid. No child, anyway. He knew what he was doing. He provided Frank with that safe place for submission and surrender. He gave Frank hope that he could have everything he’d had with Andrew again.

  The conversation with Raoul crept in from the back of Frank’s mind. When there’d been a problem with a john, one where those involved had felt compelled to bring Frank into it, where had he been? On his knees in his office with one of the other rentboys up his arse. He owed his guys better than that. While he could agree to be more discreet, to keep their relationship out of Market Garden, everyone already knew about it. How would that affect his interactions with the others? Would they still respect him? Would they still feel safe working there knowing that the boss had indulged in at least one of them?

  Frank sighed and shut off the shower. Just once, it would be nice to have a relationship that was simple. His status prevented that from ever happening, but these additional complications were for the birds.

  Frank finished drying himself off and got dressed again. At the bedroom door, he paused to collect himself, taking a deep breath and pushing back all the worries and fears that had him tied up in knots. Whatever the future held, tonight would be about food, hanging out with three of his best friends and his boyfriend, and not giving a fuck about anything else.

  One more deep breath, and he left the bedroom and joined the others downstairs.

  He could tell before he stepped into the kitchen that Geoff and Mike had arrived. That kind of uproarious laughter only echoed through this house when those two goofballs were present, and Frank finally managed to smile right before he turned the corner at the bottom of the stairs.

  “All right, who let these stooges into my house?”

  Emily pointed a wooden spoon at Brandon. “He opened the door. Blame him.”

  “I’ll take it out of his hide later.”

  Brandon shot him a curious glance, and Frank felt that instant chemistry again. All the unspoken things that were said with glances and implications. One of the things he liked best about being in a relationship: It always felt like a conspiracy of two.

  “I got the wine.” Mike pointed at a couple bags standing on the counter. “Kick me out and lose the wine.”

  Frank nodded. “In that case, you can stay. And your friend too.” He glanced over Emily’s shoulder. “What are you doing?”

  “One of my Italian staples for starters. Set the table. You’ll need a couple sets of cutlery.”

  “Got it, boss.” Frank busied himself laying the table, and Brandon watched him for a few moments, then replicated what he was doing on the other side of the table. Napkins, red and white wineglasses, a whole line of cutlery, plates and trivets to put th
e hot food on, salad bowls—the full works. His kitchen was stocked much like Mike’s, thanks largely to Andrew, who had to be carried out of speciality cooking and housewares shops. It did help if Geoff was around to carry Mike out, too, because those two had usually teamed up to buy more kitchen stuff than anybody needed.

  “There. Done.” Emily sounded just the cute side of smug. “Sit down.”

  Everybody scrambled to their seats, and Brandon sat right next to Frank, Geoff and Mike opposite.

  Mike unfolded his napkin in his lap. “So has anybody been following The Great British Bake Off?”

  Geoff rolled his eyes. “He’s getting into bread baking now. We drove like two hours to get the proper sourdough starter or whatever’s called.”

  “Everything depends on the levain.” Mike slapped Geoff’s shoulder. “And if you don’t like it, you don’t get any.”

  Frank bit back a laugh.

  Beside him, Brandon cleared his throat. “I don’t know how y’all handle things in this country,” he said with an exaggerated drawl, “but in mine, we say grace before meals.”

  Everyone at the table froze. Eyes wide, staring at Brandon like he’d lost his mind. Frank included.

  “You say what?” Mike waved a hand. “Honey, I say whatever grace I need to say when I find my ingredients at the shops.”

  “That’s not grace.” Geoff cast him a sardonic glance. “And it’s not you, either. It’s me saying ‘Oh thank fuck, now we can go home.’”

  Brandon laughed. “Relax, I’m fucking with you. The extent of my grace-saying since I left home has been ‘Yay, God! Boo, Devil! Let’s eat.’”

  Geoff choked on a gulp of wine.

  “See?” Mike elbowed him. “That’s why you sip wine. In case you’re sitting at a table with a smart-arse.”

  “Oh, is that why?” Geoff dabbed his lip with his napkin. “And here I thought it was for some sort of snobby connoisseur tasting bullshit.”

  “Nope. Smart-arses.” Mike grabbed the bottle from the centre of table and pointed at the label. “See? Says it right there.”

  Geoff rolled his eyes and took another drink. A sip this time, naturally.

  Emily pointed a finely manicured nail at Brandon. “You, sir, are encouraging them.”

  “Me?” Brandon showed his palms. “I was merely suggesting we pay homage to God and thank Him for all the food and wine and company. And stuff.”

  “Uh-uh.” She shook her head once. “I paid for this stuff and turned it into something presentable and edible. You say grace to anyone, it’s Saint Emily O’Malley of the Sisters of Infinite Patience with Obnoxious Men.”

  “That’s a bit of a mouthful, darling.” Mike straightened his napkin.

  “That’s what she said,” Brandon muttered, and Mike burst out laughing.

  “Oh my God, Frank.” Mike waved his wineglass at Brandon. “I love him. Can we keep him? Please?”

  “Um, technically under the rules of warfare, don’t I get to keep you?” Brandon lifted an eyebrow.

  Mike’s cheeks turned bright red. Geoff sniggered behind his hand.

  Emily pinched the bridge of her nose. “Boys. Focus. Food.”

  Brandon sat up straighter. “You have my attention.”

  “Me too.” Mike cracked his knuckles over his plate. “Tell us what all this is, love. Where do we start?”

  “We’re moving parts of the menu to the summer one.” Emily stood and pointed. “So there’s olives Ascolana-style, large mild green olives stuffed with a really complex mix of pork sausage meat and veal, and yes, I can use the word ‘sausage’ without having sniggering five-year-olds at the table. I finally managed to secure a supplier for the right kind of— Geoff! Get your fingers out of there. I’m not done yet.”

  Red-faced, Geoff withdrew his hand. “Fine . . .”

  “Anyway, I finally managed to secure a supplier for the right kind of Italian olives. Quickly fried, Italians love them as finger food. There’s a couple slices of proper salami from the same provider, and I’m switching out the supplier for the mozzarella, because this one has a much nicer texture and the acidity is better rounded. Served with salt, pepper, and a splash of olive oil I had to practically bribe the Italians to let it leave the country. They only export the cheap stuff.” She pointed at the bread basket. “Served with ciabatta with sundried tomatoes.”

  “Oh, now you’ve got my interest.” Mike leaned forwards. “Nobody in London does a good ciabatta.”

  Emily’s eyes flashed. “Try me.”

  Frank chuckled. “You knew that was coming, Mike.”

  “Yeah, well. I don’t want her to become complacent.” Mike winked. “Like the rest of London’s cooks.”

  “The recession’s already killing the bad ones. I’ll kill the others.” Emily wielded her serrated bread knife to cut up the ciabatta. “Next course is butterflied chicken stuffed with mozzarella, sundried tomatoes, spiced sausage, and fresh herbs, cut and presented on a bed of polenta with mixed vegetables. Simple, but a crowd pleaser. Dessert is based on ricotta with honey and candied limes. The trick is to perfectly balance the sour with the sweet. It’s also doused in limoncello, so that one’s boozy.” Her toothy grin said it was likely enough to make them all drunk. “Tuck in, gentlemen. You, too, Mike.”

  Geoff reached for his fork, then drew his hand back. “Are you sure I’m allowed now?”

  “Yes, Geoff.” Emily turned her knife over and over in her hand. “Go ahead.”

  Geoff whimpered. “Frank, she’s scaring me.”

  “Emily.” Frank gave her the most disapproving look he could muster. “Put the knife down so the lad can eat.”

  She flashed Geoff a grin and laid the knife down on the table. He eyed her hand warily as he picked up his fork. When she didn’t attack him, he started eating.

  Frank met Emily’s eyes, and they both laughed.

  The food was, as always when Emily prepared it, divine. By the time they’d finished all the courses, it was a wonder any of them could move.

  “That was amazing.” Brandon stretched on his chair.

  “Well, thank you, Brandon.” Emily smiled. “It didn’t offend your Yankee palate?”

  “No, definitely not.” He patted his stomach. “In fact, I think we should pass around some feathers so we can all start over.”

  Frank snorted.

  Mike cocked his head. “Do what now?”

  “You know.” Brandon made a gesture like he was tickling the back of his throat. “Feathers.”

  Geoff grimaced. Rolling his eyes, he sipped his wine. “Mike, if you don’t get it, don’t ask.”

  Emily threw Brandon an indignant look. “Just for that, I think you should have to wash the dishes.”

  “Me? What? It was a compliment.”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  Brandon looked at Frank. “Do I have to wash the dishes now?” He put on an innocent face, but there was a wicked sparkle in his eyes. Go ahead. Tell me to do it. I dare you.

  Frank swallowed. He gestured with his wineglass at Emily. “Don’t look at me. She makes the rules when she cooks.”

  “That’s right.” Emily had a triumphant grin. “Into the kitchen with you.”

  “Damn it.” Brandon stood, but paused. “Mike, you’re helping me.”

  Mike blinked. “Huh?”

  “Helping. With the dishes.” Brandon snapped his fingers and pointed at the kitchen.

  Mike was on his feet so fast he almost knocked Geoff’s wine out of his hand. As the two of them went into the kitchen, Geoff’s jaw dropped.

  “The fuck?” He turned to Frank. “Did that just happen?”

  “Mm-hmm.” Frank shivered. “It did.”

  “Is that a Gay Conspiracy thing I’m not getting?” Emily poured herself more red.

  “Have you ever seen Mike obey an order?”

  “Usually involves showing him a boning knife, but he follows mine fine.” She rolled her eyes. “God forbid, I used ‘boning.’ Remind me to never have children or at l
east strangle the male ones.”

  Geoff chortled into his wine.

  Frank laughed. “God, I love you guys.”

  Emily lifted her wineglass. “And cheers to that.”

  Frank took his. “To friendship.” And absent friends, too.

  Something clattered in the kitchen. Emily put her glass down. “If they break my stuff I’m going to cut a bitch.” She headed into the kitchen.

  Frank chuckled and saw Geoff look at him fondly. “What?”

  “Don’t mind me saying this, Frank, but you look happy. That’s a good look on you. I like it.” Geoff nearly saluted him with his wineglass. “Getting serious with him, are you?”

  “I’ll cross those bridges when I get there. Right now, I’m just . . . enjoying myself.” Butterflies and snakes and all. “Uh. Thanks for everything you’ve done for me. You and Mike. I don’t think I ever told you . . . how much that meant to me.”

  “You didn’t have to tell me, Frank. Anybody with a hint of empathy saw what you were going through. It’s fine. That’s what friends are for. Mike went through it, too, and he wasn’t Andrew’s partner, just a friend. But believe me, even he suffered a great deal.”

  “Yeah, they were close.” Frank glanced over into the kitchen. “You guys okay with him?”

  “I am.”

  Frank felt another weight lift off his chest. “Mind you, it can all still go horribly wrong.”

  “Always can.” Geoff glanced at him over the wine bottle as he topped off their glasses. “But things can work out even if the start’s a bit rocky. Look at Mike and me. That was a bit of a running battle, but it worked out.”

  Frank grinned. “Yeah. It’s never smooth.”

  Geoff winked. “Half the fun. In hindsight.”

  “I’ll take your word for it.”

  “And, oh, Frank.”

  “Hmm?”

  “In case you’ll have need of a best man again . . .” Geoff looked straight into his eyes. “I see how fond you are of him. You guys make a good team, too. So, if that matter comes up, I’m claiming that best man spot before Mike snags it.”

  Frank, struck speechless, merely nodded.

  “At least I now know better than to get pissed before the speech this time.” Geoff grinned and winked.