The address was a posh French restaurant in Kensington, and after dropping James off, Cal busied himself with searching for a parking place. He found one several streets away from the restaurant. It wasn’t as close as he’d have preferred, but he had four-and-a-half hours to prowl closer. He spent the evening scribbling in the notebook propped against the wheel and looking for a better position every now and then, dashing out of his parking space when he saw an opening, and fending off other hopeful parkers trying to take it.
By midnight, he was just twenty meters away from the restaurant. He was checking his watch now, and keeping an eye on his phone, too, but the meeting was clearly overrunning. He didn’t like that at all. It happened on occasion and always made him nervous. Cal told himself this had to be important if James allowed them to keep him, but late dinner meetings usually meant less dining and more drinking, which meant a good possibility of Cal pouring James into bed at the end of the night. Or at least, that would be what was expected of him. Tonight, he had a mind to leave James on his own. If that meant letting him pass out in the living room and rumple his expensive suit? Fine.
He put the notebook away and kept looking at the restaurant’s entrance.
Ten past.
Fifteen past.
He looked at the envelope again, weighed it. Felt like maybe five, six bills? A hundred quid? It was a nice round sum. Fifty or so, if it was tenners. Damn. He opened the envelope; it wasn’t closed properly anyway, just the flap tucked in.
Fifties. He didn’t see a lot of those. Shops didn’t like them and reacted suspiciously.
Three hundred.
That was way, way too much money for compensation for a couple hours. It was even too much for a tip or thank-you. This? That amount bought sex, and probably pretty good sex, too.
Now he wished he hadn’t looked. The nervous feeling in his stomach had turned into full-blown nausea. Here he’d been worried he’d left James high and dry when he’d needed something from him, but he hadn’t expected to be a bloody commodity. His paycheque was for his arse in the driver’s seat, not in James’s bed.
Was this how much James paid the rentboys at Market Garden? Had this money been earmarked for . . . who was it he’d been looking for last night? Nick? Or maybe Nick earned more than that. He was a professional, after all. Not the afterthought hooker waiting on the kerb when James couldn’t find what he’d wanted in the—
Stop. Just stop.
He rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. He silently begged James’s colleagues or clients or whoever the fuck he’d been meeting to just wrap this up, finish the nightcaps, and go.
At a quarter past one, the restaurant’s glass doors opened for the hundredth time. Cal sat straighter as three men emerged, jackets over their arms, one of them gesturing animatedly while James and the other guy laughed. They were all steady on their feet, but had enough of a swagger to tell Cal they’d been drinking. Big surprise.
At least James wasn’t shitfaced. Not that he would’ve been Cal’s problem anyway. He could sleep it off in the goddamned foyer. Or the back of the car, for that matter, since he wasn’t prone to being sick when he was drunk.
The men shook hands and parted ways as Cal pulled up beside the kerb. He put the car in park, grabbed his cap, and after a moment’s hesitation, picked up the envelope as well.
“Right on time, Callum.” James grinned. His steps were a little uneven, and his eyes were red and glazed; yeah, he’d definitely put a few away tonight.
Cal offered an icy smile. Instead of opening the car door, though, he held out the envelope. “I believe this is yours.”
James eyed the envelope. “What is—isn’t that what I gave you earlier?” He waved a hand. “It’s yours, Cal.”
Don’t fucking call me that.
Cal gritted his teeth and thrust the envelope at James. “No, it’s not. I don’t want it.”
James didn’t take it. He locked eyes with Cal. “But it’s—”
“I am not your whore,” Cal snarled before he could stop himself. “Take back your fucking money.”
James’s eyes widened. He drew back as if sobering up right there and then. “My . . . no, that’s not . . .”
Cal took James’s wrist, shoved the envelope into his hand, and let go. He turned away and opened the door. “Home, sir?”
“I, uh . . .” James glanced back and forth from the envelope to Cal, but Cal refused to look him in the eye. He’d felt ill about the money all evening, but standing here now in front of James, he was furious.
Just get in the goddamned car before I say anything else and get myself fired.
Or I fucking quit.
Without a word, James slid into the car. Cal slammed the door with more force than was necessary. Petty, perhaps, but it meant less anger that would come out as road rage.
All the way home, he kept throwing glances at the privacy screen. At first, he just kept looking to make sure it was still closed. God, please, let it stay closed. Then he was trying to shoot daggers through it with his eyes. Three hundred quid? Fucking really? And then he was back to hoping the thing stayed closed.
He pulled up in front of the house, stomach still knotted with that queasy-angry feeling. He put the car in park, but didn’t get out immediately. Closing his eyes, he gave himself a quick pep talk: Get out, see him out of the car, put the car away, and go home. Fast and easy. Just like—