“Can or glass?”
“Can, unless you’ve got an IV you can hook me to.”
Raoul laughed and produced two cans of Red Bull from beneath the bar. Then he disappeared, leaving Frank and Brandon alone.
Brandon popped one of the tabs. “Give me half an hour or so, and I’ll be fine.”
“I don’t want you pushing yourself that hard,” Frank said. “You need to be—”
“I need to have my A game, I know.” Brandon took a few swallows from the energy drink. “I’m good. Don’t worry.”
“Clients want more than someone running on fumes.” And I don’t want you out there with a john if you’re not alert and vigilant.
“So what do you want me to do?” Brandon finished the first can and eyed the second. “Take the night off? I need the money, Frank.”
“I do want you to take the night off. You’ve been here almost every night this week, and I know damn well you’re raking in plenty.” He arched an eyebrow. “You’re not in debt to the Mob or something, are you?”
Brandon laughed. “No, it’s nothing like that. But unless you want to become my civil partner so I don’t get shipped back stateside, I need all the money I can get.”
“I suppose.” Frank tapped his fingers on the bar. “But one night won’t make or break you. And besides, I . . .” He hesitated.
Brandon tilted his head. “What?”
Frank glanced around, checking for any ears that might be listening in. “I’ll buy you dinner. I think we need to talk.”
“Talk about wh—” Brandon cut himself off. “Oh. Right. I guess we never did have that morning-after conversation.”
Frank glanced around, but nobody was standing close enough to have heard that.
You’re trying to hide that he’s special to you from a room full of guys who make a living out of reading non-verbal cues? Really?
“Get your jacket.” Frank pushed away from the bar. “I’m in the mood for a pile of unhealthy meat.”
They walked out through the main club, which, while it provided cover, was starting to irritate Frank. He should move to different premises, possibly further outside where rents weren’t skinning alive everybody but Starbucks, which didn’t pay tax. Small businesses didn’t really have that option. He’d think on it. The cash flow was there. And he could redecorate.
He led Brandon out the door, ignoring the glances Brandon got from men and women alike.
“Have a walk?” Frank asked. “I need to stretch my legs.”
“Sure.”
They walked for a while, which allowed Frank to put his thoughts in a row. Not that he hadn’t pondered it, but they’d got distracted by other things when they’d originally planned to have this discussion, and besides, it didn’t seem like a conversation he wanted to push for. This stuff should come up naturally.
They reached a hole-in-the-wall restaurant a bit beyond the usual tourist haunts. “You up for a kebab? Also, the waiters are very pretty and don’t speak much English.”
Brandon eyed him for a moment. “Sure.”
“Great.” Frank pushed through into the Lebanese/Arab fusion-type restaurant that maybe seated eight people and had surprisingly nice food beyond kebab. However, right now that was exactly what he wanted to eat.
The guy behind the bar indicated the far-away table in the corner. It was all small and cosy, and Frank felt a bit guilty for cramming Brandon into the space, but it seemed the safest place to talk.
Ordering was done quickly, from a comically badly translated menu, and then Frank leaned forwards.
“One thing first, Brandon. Apart from, thanks. Obviously. Thank you for coming out with me.”
Brandon’s brow showed that hint of a frown that Frank had learned to take as cautious approval. “It’s fine. Anything up?”
“No. I really just want to talk to you.” And let you rest. And feed you lamb and salad and stuff. “Of course, if you’re having second thoughts, that’s fine, too. Or if I’m behaving like an arsehole, then tell me.”
“I would.” Brandon relaxed somewhat and grinned.
Thank God. Whatever negative thing Brandon had expected, he didn’t expect it now.
“I’d like to see more of you. Not in the club.”
“There isn’t much more to see that you haven’t already,” Brandon said with a playful smirk.
Frank laughed. “Okay, fair point. But you know what I mean.”
“Yeah, I do.” Brandon’s expression turned more serious. He sat up, resting one elbow on the table and idly tracing the edge of his jaw with the tip of his thumb. “But, should we?”
“You tell me.”
Brandon fidgeted, lowering his gaze to the weathered tabletop between them. “Well, I probably shouldn’t be a prostitute, and I probably shouldn’t have bought a one-way ticket to London last year. But I am, and I did.” He looked at Frank through his lashes. “So I’m not big into doing what I should.”
“You do what you want.”
“What I want. What I feel like I need to do. Whatever calls to me.” He shrugged with one shoulder. “Sometimes it’s the right thing, sometimes it isn’t.”