He checked his schedule on his phone and noted he was supposed to meet someone in half an hour. New guy. Raoul had said he checked out, had even spoken to the man’s clients. Private entrepreneur trying to get under a roof, from the sound of it, and Frank wondered why. Client acquisition too hard even in the days of social media? Attracted by Market Garden’s reputation? Not that it mattered; with Nick gone, he needed to recruit, and Raoul had said the guy had the assets. Frank would reserve judgement until he’d met the new guy in person.
He nursed his cold coffee for a while longer, until a bartender brought him a fresh one and nodded meaningfully towards the left. Frank half turned and saw a stranger facing Raoul across the bar. Tall, well built, even compared to Raoul, who was no small man himself. This man was built more like a bouncer than a rentboy, with a tight tee and black military-style trousers that held Frank’s gaze for a moment longer than necessary. Strong legs, slim waist, looked like he could bench-press his own body weight without much effort—a characteristic Frank found extremely alluring.
Raoul noticed he was watching them, lifted a questioning eyebrow, and Frank nodded. Raoul pointed in his direction and the stranger walked over. Not a saunter, but not a damn thing insecure about it, either.
Frank pointed at the bench opposite. “Please have a seat.”
“I understand you’re Frank?” He spoke with the slightest hint of a Southern American drawl and settled down like he had all the time in the world.
“I’m Frank, yes.”
“Stefan.”
Stefan? An unusual name for an American.
Stefan offered his hand. Frank shook it, and the grip was firm, almost challenging. He glanced up into the guy’s face. Hazel eyes, and pretty ones, with an even, confident stare.
Frank broke the grip and felt a moment’s hesitation on Stefan’s part. Frank frowned. “Keep that for the clients.”
Amusement curled the corners of Stefan’s mouth just slightly, and he drew back his hand. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Good call.” Frank folded his hands. “So you’re American.”
Stefan gestured at his dark, crew-cut hair. “It was the hair that gave me away, wasn’t it?”
Frank laughed. A dry sense of humour. That, he liked. “What brings you to this side of the pond?”
“Wanderlust.” There was no humour in that single word and just enough firmness to suggest that it was the only answer Frank was getting.
“I see. And now you want to work as a London rentboy?”
Some of the amusement returned to Stefan’s expression, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “Beats sitting behind a desk, don’t you think?”
“It does, yes.”
“And I figure”—Stefan’s shoulder rose slightly—“I’m going to get fucked up the ass one way or the other, so I might as well enjoy it.”
Frank laughed. “You’re a bottom, then?”
“Can be.” Something else glittered in Stefan’s eyes. “I can be whatever someone wants me to be.”
“What’s your preference?”
“Top.” He said it quickly, without a second thought. “Definitely top.”
“Great.” Frank grinned. “Especially since we have a vacancy for someone like you. Though there’s a difference between a top and a Dom.” He arched an eyebrow.
Stefan returned the grin. “Yes, I’m well aware of the difference.”
“And where would you say you fall on that spectrum? Only a top? Or more of a Dom?”
“Well.” Stefan chuckled as he sat up straighter. He leaned on the table, closing some of the distance between them. “I definitely wouldn’t call myself ‘only’ a top.”
Frank resisted the urge to gulp. Cocky son of a bitch. Pity he didn’t allow himself to get involved with the men on his payroll. An arrogant motherfucker with a military look and a penchant for topping? Bloody hell. Though he doubted a hot kid like this would want anything to do with a grizzled ex-con.
Frank cleared his throat. “What kind of top would you call yourself?”
Stefan’s broadening grin did crazy shit to Frank’s blood pressure. “You ever seen Full Metal Jacket?”
This time, Frank did gulp. “I have.”
“I thought about being a drill instructor before I got out.” Stefan ran the tip of his tongue along his upper lip. “And I would’ve made R. Lee Ermey’s character drop to his knees and beg me for permission to suck my dick.”
Oh. Bloody. Hell.
Frank needed a moment to collect his thoughts. Prime piece of American beefcake with a military fetish, a cocky attitude, and a malicious playfulness that he didn’t doubt even for a moment could turn scary in a very good way. He shot Raoul a nasty glare. The fucker had known. He must have. The only argument against his sneaking suspicion was that Raoul had once upon a time tried to get into Frank’s pants, so why would he dig up a guy who he knew Frank would find damn near irresistible?
“So what brings you to Market Garden? There’s a military scene in and around London.”
“I like to pay rent.”
“Yeah. Fair enough.” Frank leaned back and crossed his arms. “Well, looking at you, I think you should be popular.”
“We can hope, right? When can I start?”
“Your background checked out.” Frank never read the background info or paperwork with his guys’ personal info on them. He didn’t want to mistakenly call someone by their real name. He trusted Raoul, and Raoul said Stefan checked out, so that was good enough. He eyed Stefan’s clothes. “There is a dress code.”
Stefan nodded. “I was hoping to wear camos, though.”