He stepped under the spray and washed himself, the hot water mellowing him. For the few minutes of showering, life was good and straightforward, and he could wash their sweat off his skin, and maybe eventually this would just be a one-night stand, ill-advised, Château Margaux–powered and nothing more.
He dropped into bed, checked his mail on his phone, and then stretched out.
Once he’d switched off the light, he was awake again, thinking of the other lonely guy in his large empty bed, and he hated himself for being professional when James clearly needed something from him tonight.
On the other hand, he was living in a servants’ cottage, and that was all he was ever going to be in James’s world. A damned servant. He’d better not forget that. He had got used to it. His job was to drive him from A to B. Nothing more.
“His firm is paying for a chauffeur on call because the time he saves commuting and the work he does in the back of the car easily pays for it anyway. The guy is some kind of finance wunderkind, so don’t distract him. Do your job and keep your head down.”
His uncle had made a great amount of sense. Getting paid to drive a really nice car and idle in between? It had sounded brilliant, especially when the alternative had been slinging lattes or working in a call centre.
He didn’t sleep so well. In the morning, he dragged himself out of bed and dressed—he owned a whole pile of those black trousers and white shirts that were his main uniform on the job—then left the cottage and took the car out again. If he was not needed until 6 p.m., he had plenty of time to get the car serviced and cleaned.
So much for a long, leisurely day to regroup and collect his thoughts. The hours flew by, and he’d barely finished a late lunch before he had to head back towards James’s place, and suddenly he was somehow needing to hurry the hell up and bring the car around.
At five minutes to six, he stood beside the car door and looked up at the house, waiting for James. His stomach was wound in knots, heart pounding in his ears. Had James realised what a mistake last night was? Or was he angry with Cal for leaving before the sheets had even cooled? Could they both pretend it had never happened and just move on? They’d managed after the night James had drunkenly groped Cal. Though he supposed he couldn’t expect James to have forgotten last night the way he’d forgotten that incident.
He closed his eyes and exhaled. If James didn’t want to be constantly reminded of his mistake, he’d probably fire Cal and be done with it. Then Cal would have to find a place to live and another job—reason for leaving previous employer? Uh . . .—but at least the awkwardness would no longer be an issue.
At exactly six o’clock, the front door opened. Cal held his breath. Part of that was nerves, and part of it, well, this wasn’t exactly the first time his heart had fluttered upon seeing James exit the house. He had to be meeting clients tonight. He was wearing the navy blue suit, the most perfectly tailored one he owned. His polished dress shoes clicked sharply on the walkway. Cal could only imagine how long James had taken to make sure every hair was precisely in place and that the dimples in his tie—navy blue as well this time—were flawless.
“Callum,” he said with a slight nod.
“Sir.”
Their eyes met. James was all businessman bravado tonight, but that wavered just a little as the eye contact lingered. He lowered his gaze and cleared his throat.
“I have an appointment in London. Seven thirty, probably ending around midnight.”
Cal nodded. He pulled open the car door. The long meetings didn’t bother him. He kept a notebook in the car and could spend the evening writing. On the clock, no less.
James glanced at the open door, but didn’t move. “Uh, about last night . . .”
Fuck. Here we go.
Cal resisted the urge to let his nerves show. “Yes, sir?”
“I’m, um . . .” James cleared his throat again. “I wanted to apologise for keeping you past your shift for, uh, inappropriate . . .”
“It’s all right, sir. Water under the bridge.” He gestured at the car. “Your meeting?”
James still didn’t move. He slid his hand into his coat. As he withdrew a white envelope, Cal gulped. His walking papers? Severance pay? Oh fuck, he really was getting fired.
“I didn’t feel it was right to keep you so late without compensation.” He held out the envelope. “This should cover it.”
“Oh. Uh.” Uncertain what else to do, Cal took the envelope. “Thank you, sir.”
“Right.” James gave a sharp nod, and then slid into the car.
Cal closed the door, and for a second, just stared at the envelope. He could see through the semitransparent white paper and made out the shapes of a few bank notes. More than one, judging by the thickness. Hush money? No, that couldn’t be it. Who would possibly care? Unless James didn’t want his ex-wife finding out he had a thing for men, hired or otherwise; he barely saw his kids as it was, and she didn’t need any ammunition to get his visitation reduced.
Shaking his head, he went around to the driver’s side and got in the car. He put his cap on his notebook on the passenger seat, and tossed the envelope on top. As he drove away from the house, thankful the privacy screen was still up, he glanced at the envelope a couple of times.
Was it hush money? It couldn’t really be compensation for his time.
Well, you’ll still be paid for the same hours, James had said last night.
After all, Cal had been on the clock. He’d already been scheduled to be on duty until late last night because he’d taken James to—
Cal’s heart stopped.
His gaze slid towards the envelope again before he quickly shifted it back to the road.
He’d been on duty. Already fully compensated for an evening that included taking James to Market fucking Garden. Had he just been paid . . . for sex?
Cal gripped the wheel tighter, a weird feeling coiling in his gut. Holy shit. He couldn’t interpret it any other way: James had just paid him for being a substitute for one of the rentboys who usually took care of his needs.
Oh my God. Did he just pay me to be his whore?
He quickly glanced at the privacy screen and wished he could see James and demand an answer to that question.
Breathe, Cal. Getting upset about this won’t get him safely where he has to go.
He focused on the traffic, though people around him usually drove extra carefully. He suspected they were worried they couldn’t afford what it would cost to fix the limo—but there were pushy cabbies and of course the occasional oblivious cyclist with a death wish, especially in London, and the financial district had a number of dangerous spots. Hell, hadn’t Goldman Sachs recently closed down a road because a number of cyclists had ended up dead there? He’d read something like that in the papers.
Talking of papers—James had carried his briefcase, so he was likely working. Distracting the financial wizard before a meeting important enough to be held on the weekend? Hell no. Whatever had happened between them, and whatever the cash-stuffed envelope actually meant, Cal would not be unprofessional about it.
The address was a posh French restaurant in Kensington, and after dropping James off, Cal busied himself with searching for a parking place. He found one several streets away from the restaurant. It wasn’t as close as he’d have preferred, but he had four-and-a-half hours to prowl closer. He spent the evening scribbling in the notebook propped against the wheel and looking for a better position every now and then, dashing out of his parking space when he saw an opening, and fending off other hopeful parkers trying to take it.
By midnight, he was just twenty meters away from the restaurant. He was checking his watch now, and keeping an eye on his phone, too, but the meeting was clearly overrunning. He didn’t like that at all. It happened on occasion and always made him nervous. Cal told himself this had to be important if James allowed them to keep him, but late dinner meetings usually meant less dining and more drinking, which meant a good possibility of Cal pouring Ja
mes into bed at the end of the night. Or at least, that would be what was expected of him. Tonight, he had a mind to leave James on his own. If that meant letting him pass out in the living room and rumple his expensive suit? Fine.
He put the notebook away and kept looking at the restaurant’s entrance.
Ten past.
Fifteen past.
He looked at the envelope again, weighed it. Felt like maybe five, six bills? A hundred quid? It was a nice round sum. Fifty or so, if it was tenners. Damn. He opened the envelope; it wasn’t closed properly anyway, just the flap tucked in.
Fifties. He didn’t see a lot of those. Shops didn’t like them and reacted suspiciously.
Three hundred.
That was way, way too much money for compensation for a couple hours. It was even too much for a tip or thank-you. This? That amount bought sex, and probably pretty good sex, too.
Now he wished he hadn’t looked. The nervous feeling in his stomach had turned into full-blown nausea. Here he’d been worried he’d left James high and dry when he’d needed something from him, but he hadn’t expected to be a bloody commodity. His paycheque was for his arse in the driver’s seat, not in James’s bed.
Was this how much James paid the rentboys at Market Garden? Had this money been earmarked for . . . who was it he’d been looking for last night? Nick? Or maybe Nick earned more than that. He was a professional, after all. Not the afterthought hooker waiting on the kerb when James couldn’t find what he’d wanted in the—
Stop. Just stop.
He rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. He silently begged James’s colleagues or clients or whoever the fuck he’d been meeting to just wrap this up, finish the nightcaps, and go.
At a quarter past one, the restaurant’s glass doors opened for the hundredth time. Cal sat straighter as three men emerged, jackets over their arms, one of them gesturing animatedly while James and the other guy laughed. They were all steady on their feet, but had enough of a swagger to tell Cal they’d been drinking. Big surprise.
At least James wasn’t shitfaced. Not that he would’ve been Cal’s problem anyway. He could sleep it off in the goddamned foyer. Or the back of the car, for that matter, since he wasn’t prone to being sick when he was drunk.
The men shook hands and parted ways as Cal pulled up beside the kerb. He put the car in park, grabbed his cap, and after a moment’s hesitation, picked up the envelope as well.
“Right on time, Callum.” James grinned. His steps were a little uneven, and his eyes were red and glazed; yeah, he’d definitely put a few away tonight.
Cal offered an icy smile. Instead of opening the car door, though, he held out the envelope. “I believe this is yours.”
James eyed the envelope. “What is—isn’t that what I gave you earlier?” He waved a hand. “It’s yours, Cal.”
Don’t fucking call me that.
Cal gritted his teeth and thrust the envelope at James. “No, it’s not. I don’t want it.”
James didn’t take it. He locked eyes with Cal. “But it’s—”
“I am not your whore,” Cal snarled before he could stop himself. “Take back your fucking money.”
James’s eyes widened. He drew back as if sobering up right there and then. “My . . . no, that’s not . . .”
Cal took James’s wrist, shoved the envelope into his hand, and let go. He turned away and opened the door. “Home, sir?”
“I, uh . . .” James glanced back and forth from the envelope to Cal, but Cal refused to look him in the eye. He’d felt ill about the money all evening, but standing here now in front of James, he was furious.
Just get in the goddamned car before I say anything else and get myself fired.
Or I fucking quit.
Without a word, James slid into the car. Cal slammed the door with more force than was necessary. Petty, perhaps, but it meant less anger that would come out as road rage.
All the way home, he kept throwing glances at the privacy screen. At first, he just kept looking to make sure it was still closed. God, please, let it stay closed. Then he was trying to shoot daggers through it with his eyes. Three hundred quid? Fucking really? And then he was back to hoping the thing stayed closed.
He pulled up in front of the house, stomach still knotted with that queasy-angry feeling. He put the car in park, but didn’t get out immediately. Closing his eyes, he gave himself a quick pep talk: Get out, see him out of the car, put the car away, and go home. Fast and easy. Just like—
Stop it.
He took a deep breath, put his shoulders back, and stepped out of the car. When he opened James’s door, he kept his gaze straight ahead, not looking right at James and sure as fuck not staring at his own feet like a scolded kid. He had nothing to be ashamed of.
James stopped when he was out of the car, and he stood just behind the door, making it impossible for Cal to close it without hitting him. Which, Cal had to admit, was mildly tempting.
And in his hands was that damned envelope.
“Callum.” There was a hint of last night’s James in his voice. Subdued, a little uncertain. “I, um, wanted to apologise.”
“You did earlier,” Cal growled. “When you gave me the money.”
“Right. Yes. I did.” James exhaled. “But I didn’t realise what I was implying when I gave it to you. I didn’t . . . that wasn’t my intention at all.”
Cal narrowed his eyes and looked right at James. “You paid me for a night of sex. What was your intention if not to pay me for—”
“I didn’t mean it that way at all.” James shook his head. “Look, I’m sorry. I felt like I’d taken advantage of you last night. Like I’d abused my position, and I didn’t know how else . . .” He trailed off, lowering his gaze and biting his lip. “I’m sorry, Callum. That’s really all I can say. I never intended to make you feel like a whore, and I’m sorry for that.”
The anger in Cal slowly simmered down, and it was replaced by a flurry of emotions he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Much as he’d known last night had been a mistake—one apparently worth apologising for with cash—part of him wanted to believe James hadn’t thought it was a mistake after all. That Cal really had done something or been something that James needed, not something he regretted.
That complicated things. A lot. Cal wanted to believe last night had been a good thing, but if it was, then what? Did they dare do it again? Did he dare hope they would?
Avoiding James’s eyes, he cleared his throat. “Will you be needing me any more tonight, sir?” Immediately, he cringed.
Right. That was the best question to ask right then.
“No, you can go.” James stepped out of the way of the door. “Good night, Callum.”
Cal shut the door, wondering when it had become so fucking heavy, and heard himself repeat what he’d said on the way out of James’s bedroom last night: “Good night, sir.”
It took a few days for their routine to settle, and it was a full week before Cal had his head together enough to think about writing. He read instead. Crammed his head full of other people’s words, hoping that might squeeze out all those restless thoughts, maybe even crush them.
At least he and James had gone back to behaving professionally. The other night was over. They’d fucked. It had been bloody amazing. But now they both needed to save face. Right?
Right.
He focused on being a good driver. They didn’t talk. He listened, half-disinterested, to James’s conversations on the phone, opened the door for him, closed it behind him, kept the car spotless and available. On his writing, he hit a productive phase about a week later, actually getting some work done for once, with most of it being good quality. So much so that he declined an invite from a couple friends from uni to hang out in London so he could get more work done. The thesis was progressing well, too. He had a solid outline and a decent twenty-five thousand words. He’d be done in a month or two if he managed to stay focused.
Not long after they’d retu
rned to their normal routine, Cal felt a shift in James. Something like an impending full moon or turning tide. A kind of tension and restlessness. Cal knew what that meant, so James calling him on the intercom one Saturday night didn’t come as a big surprise.
“Could you get me into London tonight?”
“Yes, sir. When?”
“Half an hour? I’m going to Market Garden.”
And his heart sank.
What did you think he’d do? He’s been fucking guys from that place ever since his marriage went south. You think you have some magical healing cock that will get him away from that place so he’ll . . . what? Fuck you and then go find a boyfriend or something?
“I’ll be there, sir.”
Hesitation. “I know you will be, Callum. Thank you.”
I know you’ll be there for me.
Cal closed his eyes and gently banged his forehead against the wall. Why are you doing this to yourself, James? Why the hell do you pay these guys? Why don’t you date and flirt and fuck another banker and be fucking happy?
He didn’t get it. James’s tastes couldn’t be so outlandish that he couldn’t find a consenting partner for it? Cal really struggled imagining James getting into something so freaky, so horrible, that he couldn’t find it in the regular dating pool.
Hell, I’d do it. Let me make you happy, James.
No, Cal. He’s your boss.
Your boss who tried to pay you for sex like one of his whores.
Gritting his teeth, Cal put his uniform on. Then he went to the garage, got the car out, parked it in front of the house, and stood beside it, waiting. It was his job. If that meant taking James to meet a whore—especially instead of being his whore—then it wasn’t Cal’s place to judge.
James emerged from the house, and Cal looked anywhere but right at him. He just had to wear that damned red tie, didn’t he? It was like a fucking good luck charm. He always wore it when he went to Market Garden.
Cal curled his fingers at his sides, trying not to remember the way the silk had felt—cool in some places, body-warm in others—as he’d undone the knot and—