After Nick had exhausted Red Tie, they moved to his bed, and the john was out cold before too long. Lying awake beside him, Nick stared up at the ceiling, his stomach all tied in knots. Likely nobody could tell the difference, and Red Tie certainly hadn’t complained, but tonight was the first time in a long time that Nick had just gone through the motions like an automaton: bought, paid for, and without giving a damn.
No, it was worse than that. It wasn’t just that he didn’t give a damn. It wasn’t just apathy. He didn’t want to be here tonight. At all. There was one place he wanted to be, and it was neither this extravagant house nor his own tiny flat. His mind was already there, behind the closed door of Spencer’s bedroom, and if Red Tie hadn’t paid for the entire night, Nick would be well on his way there now.
But he was here tonight. Bought, paid for, and not going anywhere.
No matter how badly he wanted to be with Spencer.
“If you need a ride, I’m heading back to Central London very soon,” the driver told Nick when he emerged, freshly showered, from one of the guest rooms in the manor. The man studiously ignored Nick’s bare chest and stayed at a polite distance. “We’re a bit out of the way.”
“I can get a taxi.”
“It won’t get you back any faster. I need to pick up something anyway.”
Nick arched an eyebrow. The gentle insistence wasn’t just politeness. “I’ll check with Mister . . .” No idea what the john’s name was. “With your employer.”
“He’s fine. He’ll sleep until noon.”
Nick thought he saw a hint of concern, but he himself was off the hook. Paid and dismissed. If the game hadn’t gone on ’til five or so, he wouldn’t have hung around, but Red Tie had insisted, arguing he’d paid to have Nick at his disposal for the entire night. Smart-arse.
“All right.”
“Breakfast?”
“Just a coffee, please,” Nick said.
“Follow me.”
Nick arched his eyebrow again, but followed the man into a large kitchen. Here, the reason for the john’s insistence that It doesn’t fit into my life became painfully obvious. There were kids’ wellies lined up near the sliding door into the garden. One pair was pink, a larger one blue.
“Filter? Italian? Cappuccino, latte?” The driver stood next to a fully automated Italian coffee machine.
“Latte.” Nick spotted a couple photos on a corkboard, and saw the john and a smiling woman, cheek to cheek, in what was likely a tropical location, considering the light and the reddened skin on the verge of sunburn.
He turned to look at the driver, half expecting that the man had shown him these for a reason. But yeah, a wife and kids were three good reasons not to enter into another relationship. Nick couldn’t even imagine what it took to keep those things separate enough to function.
“Sugar?”
“No, thanks.”
The driver placed a mug down on the table between them.
“Cheers.” Nick took it and had a sip. “Do you know what’s going on here?”
The driver shrugged. “I know what your purpose is.”
“Well, that one’s easy to guess. I hardly look like an investment adviser.”
The driver nodded. “Thank you for helping him deal with the pressure. He doesn’t have many . . . friends or allies. It’s very difficult at the top.”
Nick frowned. Odd thing to say, but if the driver was grateful for Nick looking after his boss in that way, that was a good reason for the offered ride. Anything beyond that was none of Nick’s business.
He drank the coffee, which revived him, though the anticipation of getting back home was an even bigger jolt than the caffeine. He wanted to be gone. Normally, he’d have tried to get the john to book another appointment, but considering he hadn’t done a great job—competent, but not great—taking the money and leaving was the best thing he could do.
He set the mug down. “Ready when you are.”
It was weird, going back into the city in the same car he’d arrived in last night. The seat seemed abnormally spacious and quiet without Red Tie and his frustration.
The driver left the privacy screen up. Hard to tell if that was to give Nick space to collect his thoughts, or if he just didn’t want to run the risk of further conversation with his employer’s prostitute.
Either way, the drive was silent, and the silence very nearly lulled Nick to sleep. Good thing he’d given the driver the address beforehand. When the car slowed to a gentle stop in Angel, Nick snapped out of a half-dreaming state, wondering how the hell they’d gotten here already.
He slipped out of the car and exchanged brief, strictly business pleasantries with the driver, and then waited for the man to depart before he started home. Not that the driver would be interested in where he lived, but it was a habit on the rare occasion when a client—or a client’s employee—drove him back to his own neighbourhood.