Fast learner. Nick set his phone aside and continued shaving. He hadn’t bothered over the last couple of days, so his skin was less than thrilled, but he’d live. Wasn’t like he got terribly scruffy after only one long weekend.
Once his face was smooth, he left the bathroom and dressed. As he put his foot up on his desk and laced up his boots, his leather trousers squeaked softly. His jacket rubbed against his skin, the surface still cool. He wore this or something similar to it every time he went to the Garden, but it felt . . . weird tonight. What the hell? He’d taken weeklong holidays more than once, and slipped right back into his black leather without a second thought. After three days, he shouldn’t have batted an eye.
He finished lacing his other boot and dropped his foot to the floor. Shaking his head, he picked up his keys and headed out. Maybe he just hadn’t rested enough. A weeklong holiday left him refreshed, if a little hungover. Considering he and Spencer had been at it until early this morning, that must have been it. Lack of sleep. Nothing ever fit quite right when the head was still tired and jumbled.
Which completely explained, of course, why, when he walked into Market Garden an hour or so later, he felt like he’d just arrived on an alien planet.
That was just bizarre. The back room and the lounge area were like second homes for Nick. He knew every crease in the back room’s hideous wallpaper, and he could practically recite the bar’s top-shelf booze by brand, in order, from left to right and back again. He knew the whores, the customers, the bouncers, and the bartenders. Even the women in the front lounge, and their customers, bouncers, and bartenders.
So why the hell did everything feel all wrong tonight?
Ah, look, Jared and Tristan being all cute and gothy, trying to pretend they were as interested in scoring tonight as getting into each other’s leather trousers. He gave a brief nod to the head bartender and took up his position near the bar. A Coke with a slice of lime materialised next to him. Raoul himself was on duty tonight.
“Good weekend?” Raoul seemed in one of his better moods.
Nick nodded. “What the doctor ordered. You?”
Raoul gave a noncommittal shrug. “Finally got the moving sorted. Commuting into London was a fucking pain in the arse.”
“Brighton, right?”
Raoul nodded. “City of yoga teachers and barkeeps. Much better up here for money.”
Yeah. Go where the bankers are. Half the service industry workers followed their prey much like sharks followed herrings . . . or whatever. Cod. City bankers were more like cod—grew fatter with age and no limit to size.
“What are you doing here on a Tuesday, anyway?”
“Need some extra cash.” Raoul flexed his biceps. “Getting another tattoo tomorrow.”
Needles—firmly something for other people. Even his piercings had been more a dare than a desperate need to see a needle pushed through his flesh. “Ah, that explains it.”
Not really, but Raoul was generally not to be messed with—all six five of him, built like a porn star on steroids. As far as leather daddies went, he was hot. Too bad that Nick didn’t think Raoul had one submissive bone in his body, and it would take a lot of chains to keep him tied down. He’d once amused himself with the image—a strictly academic pursuit, of course. He definitely didn’t fuck Market Garden staff.
The door opened behind him, and Nick glanced over his shoulder.
Not a potential client this time, though. Frank, the owner of Market Garden. Máximo Líder himself. Nick turned back and saw Raoul watch Frank closely, still and silent for a few moments before he shook his head and busied himself behind the bar. Nick suppressed a smile. Getting between these two was a bad idea. Frank was just as built and ripped as Raoul, though ten years older. Gentle giants, both of them, but Nick liked having them around in case a drunken john got out of control.
The door opened again, and this time, a gaggle of bankers spilled in. Three of them, young, moderately hot, and clearly with money burning holes in their pockets.
Nick sized them up one at a time, looking for the timid one in the bunch. There was always one. Sure, the loud, arrogant alpha could be the subbiest sub within a ten-mile radius, and the timid one could rival Nick for dominance and sadism. But Nick wasn’t in the mood to tangle with an alpha, and if the quiet one turned out to be a Dom, that would show through before too long.
The loud alpha made himself known in short order, smacking the bar with an open palm and barking an order for drinks while he waved his wallet around. The diamond in his ear was huge and gaudy. Easily the monetary equivalent to three or four rides on Nick’s cock.