And if he was honest with himself, this whole thing had exhausted him. He was done. Time to face each other, say whatever needed to be said, make a clean break, and move on. From Jason. From Market Garden. It was definitely time to have that conversation with his clients about Skype.
To the driver, he said, “On second thought, could you take me back into the city? To West Kensington Station? I’m happy to pay.” In theory, he could have the guy drop him at any train station, especially since he knew the Underground like the back of his hand, but he was too exhausted and distracted to trust himself to get to the right station this time.
The driver shrugged and switched on the meter. He got off the expressway, got back on going the other way, and headed to London.
The Underground symbol had become as familiar as glowing Texaco stars and Golden Arches, but this time, it made his heart speed up.
He paid the cabbie for the Heathrow flat rate plus what was on the meter, and tipped him generously. Then he walked inside. Every station was different, and somehow the same. Constantly moving. Dizzying. People funneling through the turnstiles, which beeped as each harried commuter touched their Oyster card to the scanner. A crackling voice over the loudspeaker made an announcement that was mostly lost in the noise, and the steady barrage of rushed footsteps sounded like soldiers marching through. There were screens and a dingy Underground map and some handwritten whiteboards announcing delays and—
And it was all suddenly blurry, the background reduced to a near-silent buzz and the crowd almost transparent, as his focus was pulled to the familiar face beside the dirty white wall.
For a second, Blake forgot where he was, and halted, but a grumbling Londoner quickly reminded him—shoulder first—that you always kept moving in a place like this.
He found his footing again, and made his way around the crowd to Jason.
And just like that, there they were, with only an arm’s length between them like last night, but somehow further apart than they’d been when they were strangers that first time at Market Garden. Jason appeared as tired as Blake felt—dark circles under his eyes, shoulders bunched beneath his leather jacket, a dusting of stubble along his sharp jaw—and he struggled as much as Blake did to hold eye contact.
Blake moistened his lips. “You wanted to talk?”
Jason’s eyes darted toward the bag on Blake’s shoulder. Then he nodded. “Why don’t we go back to my flat?” He pushed himself off the wall. “I’d prefer not to talk about this in public.”
“Sure. That’s fine.” This thing could definitely still go south, and the fewer witnesses, the better.
Jason motioned for him to follow, and they joined the throngs of people squeezing through the barrier and heading for the escalators. They didn’t talk or even so much as glance at each other as they descended into the Underground. On the train to South Kensington, they fit right in with the Londoners around them—no eye contact, no conversation.
When they reached their stop, they got off the train, emerged from the station, and started walking toward Jason’s place. Blake had been down this road once before, but he couldn’t have found his way to Jason’s flat on his own to save his life.
Jason kept his hands in his pockets. As he walked, something rattled quietly, though not quite rhythmically, as if he were rolling objects around between his fingers. Like rocks or coins—the sound was too muffled to readily identify.
He glanced at Blake and the bag on his shoulder again. “You’ve already checked out, then?”
Blake nodded. “I was on my way to the airport.”
“Oh. Right. You’re—” The clicking stopped. “Are you going to miss your flight?”
“There’ll be others.”
“I suppose I could’ve met you there.”
“This is fine. We’re almost to your place, aren’t we?”
“Yeah. This way.”
They followed the walk up to Jason’s flat, and he keyed them in. Déjà vu. Well, sort of. Blake had been a little uneasy about coming in here the first time because it seemed like he was crossing a line that Jason clearly didn’t let most people cross. Now, he didn’t know what to feel. If anything, being here was salt in the wound—a reminder of how flirty and at ease they’d been the night before they’d flown to the States, when they’d talked about Jason’s trophies and bantered like old friends. All of that may as well have happened in another lifetime.
In the kitchen, there was a bottle of Rémy Martin on the table and a glass sitting beside it.
Jason picked up the bottle and scanned the label. “One of my clients gave this to me. Must’ve been a year or so ago now.”
Blake didn’t respond—he wasn’t sure what to say.
“Took me until last night to crack it open.” Sighing, Jason set the bottle on the counter. “For something that expensive, you’d think it would’ve tasted better. Apparently you really can’t buy taste.”
Any other time, this would’ve sparked a volley of playful comments and some good-natured swipes at their respective nationalities. Blake hadn’t realized how much he’d miss that.