Market Garden was packed compared to the place he’d left in Soho. Cal had made his way inside, passing through the strip club and into the lounge area behind the curtains, expecting any moment to be found out and told to leave, but they let him pass, and there . . .
Why the hell was he here? He’d ridden around for a while, wandering the streets of London aimlessly. Maybe it was just habit, but as soon as he’d turned onto a road that formed part of the route from James’s place to Market Garden, he’d automatically come here. He hadn’t even realised this was his destination until he’d arrived, and then he’d come in anyway. Why, he had no idea. It was louder and more crowded than the place that had overwhelmed him earlier, and given the clientele—men who dressed as expensively or more so than James—he’d never be able to afford to get laid here.
But I’m here now. And for some reason, I feel like I should be.
This was very much James’s hunting ground. Well, Cal wasn’t sure “hunting” was the word. More like shooting fish in a barrel. The rentboys were all hot, and there seemed to be at least one of every type Cal could imagine, all kinds of guys from twinks to brick walls. A couple of leatherguys hung out at the bar and didn’t appear to be selling anything, but admittedly, Cal didn’t have the experience to tell a whore from somebody who was open-minded about where the night might go.
He looked around and tried to get his bearings. There was the twink couple James had rented one night, and they were sitting left and right of a happy-looking banker type, flirting with him in between eye-fucking each other.
A goddamned gorgeous barkeeper stood behind the bar, displaying a naked chest full of tattoos, mixing drinks with the faux-bored air of a barely tamed badass doing things way, way under his paygrade.
“You looking for somebody, kid?”
Cal turned around. Now they were going to tell him to get lost. They’d seen in his face and his gait and his clothes that he didn’t have the money to buy anything here—or at least no more than a drink. He could definitely swing one of those.
“Uh.” He cleared his throat, looking at the ripped guy in camos standing in front of him. The kind eyes gave him pause, and the American drawl sounded friendly. In his experience, the big guys were usually pretty gentle. By that logic, this guy had to be a puppy, because his physique was damn near scary. “It’s complicated.”
The American’s eyebrows rose. “Complicated? In here? Do tell.”
Cal shifted his weight. “I, well.” He glanced around, feeling more conspicuous and out of place than he’d ever been in his life, even though with his leather trousers, he probably fit in, at least visually. “I’m . . .”
“Do you want something to drink?” The American nodded towards the bar. “Sit down for a minute?”
Cal balked. “I’m not looking to hire anyone. Like that.”
The American smiled warmly. “It’s all right. I work security anyway, so I get paid either way.”
Cal relaxed a little. “Okay. Sure. You don’t mind?”
“Not at all.” He extended his hand. “Name’s Brandon.”
Cal shook his hand. “Callum. Most people call me Cal.”
Brandon nodded. “You want anything in particular from the bar?”
“Just a Coke is fine. I’m driving.”
“All right. Grab a seat”—he gestured at an open booth—“and I’ll be right back.”
On his way to the booth, Cal wasn’t entirely sure what to make of Brandon. Nice guy. Really nice guy. Hot, too. And sitting down for a drink with a lost-looking client didn’t seem like part of a security guard’s job description, but he supposed the guy knew the rules.
Cal drummed his fingers on the table and looked around the lounge. So this was Market Garden. Bankers, lawyers, and prostitutes. All the people who screwed other people for a living, converging in one dimly lit place where the booze flowed and the tension was palpable. Some guy in a suit was getting squirmy and red-faced next to a grinning, shirtless rentboy. Another banker—Cal thought he recognised him, actually—was tugging at his collar and gulping as a guy in a suit and another in leather made out right beside him.
Tables obscured his view of a lot of couples—or groups—from about the chest down, but the reactions left little to the imagination. He could tell when someone slid his hand onto someone else’s lap, or when a guy was so hard he couldn’t sit still.
Brandon slid into the booth opposite Cal, startling him. He chuckled. “You all right?”
“Yeah.” Cal took one of the offered glasses. “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.” Brandon watched Cal as he sipped his own drink.
“Do you, uh, do this often?” Cal asked. “Have drinks with clueless new guys?”
Laughing, Brandon shook his head. “No. But you kind of caught my eye. Looked like you could use a lifeline.”
A lifeline. That about summed it up, didn’t it?