On the Clock (Market Garden, #8)

The response was prompt, so Jason was still right in front of his computer, and Blake enjoyed the thought that this was almost like a real-time conversation—they were both focused on the same thing five thousand miles apart. It made it feel like Jason was much closer than he actually was and at the same time the distance seemed much farther because they couldn’t touch or hear each other’s voice. Skype would at least bridge some of that gap.

And he’d not even think about why he possibly wanted that close contact, beyond keeping an eye on Jason so he didn’t suddenly “retire” between Blake’s business meetings in London. And maybe Jason would put up with it to keep a lucrative regular happy—though if that was all it was, he did a great job of pretending he was simply being chatty (and sometimes catty) with a friend.

Jason liked movies and food and commented insightfully on both. There was no shortage of either in London, and Blake admired Jason’s seemingly unrelenting quest for finding the best in terms of food and entertainment. They didn’t talk about clients, unless it was in the most general terms, say, when Jason was booked overnight and wasn’t going to be responding for a few hours. Then Blake found himself wishing him a good time while simultaneously searching for a distraction—and sometimes, he imagined Jason’s body with a stranger, casting Jason as a protagonist in the internal pornos he played in his mind. It all worked out very well that way.

Blake managed to finish the day without committing some sort of massive faux pas on a phone or email conversation, and he’d been as productive as could be expected by the time he decided to call it a day.

“Have a good weekend, Dee,” he said on the way out.

Deanna looked up from her desk. “You too, boss.”

He paused and turned around. “You staying late?”

“Not too much later.” She tapped the stack of papers in front of her. “Just finishing a few—”

“Dee.” He shot her a pointed look. “You’re turning into a workaholic.”

She stiffened and took a breath like she was about to protest, but then she laughed. “Well, I did learn from the best.”

“You did. Go home.”

“Okay. Get out of here. I’ll be right behind you.”

“Good. Text me when you’re out of here. I want you to have an actual weekend for once.”

She touched her forehead in a mock salute, and then started stacking her various papers on the edge of her desk, which she always did before she left. Good—she didn’t need another seventy-hour week.

With his PA heading home, and the rest of the office pretty much a ghost town, Blake got the hell out of there too. All the way back out of Manhattan, across into New Jersey, and down the line to his stop, his brain was firmly on that short exchange with Jason.

Skype? What for?

Or more to the point, how much?

He grinned to himself, staring out the window so he didn’t accidentally creep out someone else on the train. God forbid someone in a suit smile for no apparent reason.

Whatever Jason had in mind, it was probably hot and dirty, which meant it was probably expensive. Live phone sex? Now wouldn’t that be hot. Jason would probably melt his webcam if he did that. Worth the risk, as far as Blake was concerned.

He was so caught up in imagining what was going to happen tonight, he nearly missed his stop but managed to get out before the doors shut. Then he hightailed it to the parking garage a few blocks away and took the stairs two at a time to the secure second level where his car was waiting.

The Porsche’s engine roared to life, echoing through the garage, and gave Blake goose bumps for an entirely different reason than usual. Every one of the sports car’s five hundred-plus horses was present and accounted for, ready to haul ass and get him home so he could be ready when Goldenboy_Jason pinged him on Skype.

He burned rubber out of the stall, and again out of the garage. He had to obey the posted speed limit in this tiny New Jersey commuter town, but as soon as he was past the city limits, he shifted gears and put the pedal to the floor. That wasn’t unusual—even when he didn’t have a hot, expensive rentboy waiting for him on Skype, he liked speed. He didn’t buy Porsches and Lamborghinis or live at the end of a long, winding country road so he could admire them standing still.

Farms and horse pastures blurred past him. His heart was pounding, and it had nothing to do with the needle creeping up on sixty, which was faster than he normally drove. It was the most he could sanely get away with out here, or he’d have been going seventy or better. He’d been craving Jason like he’d only craved one or two rentboys before him, and he had to find out what was in store for him tonight.

He pulled up to the restored nineteenth-century mansion. It wasn’t technically a “mansion” by today’s standards, but it was perfect for him. Large enough to be spacious with an added garage that could hold his various four-wheeled toys, but not Beverly Hills huge. He didn’t want a house that was big enough to remind him he lived there alone.

He parked the Porsche between the Land Rover and the covered Lamborghini, and nearly forgot to grab his laptop off the seat or his cell phone off the console. And he’d have left them out there, except he actually needed the damned laptop tonight.