“Yes. I have.” He shook himself and forced a laugh. “Sorry. I’m really tired.”
She eyed him skeptically, but then laughed as much as customs agents are legally allowed to and stamped his passport. “Welcome to London, sir.” She slid it back across the counter. “Enjoy your stay.”
“Thank you.”
He skipped baggage claim and hurried through the last gate. It was kind of ironic, sprinting past the Nothing to Declare sign. For the first time, he did have something to declare, but it wasn’t monetary or tangible, nothing he was importing or exporting.
All he had to do now was find Jason.
He didn’t bother checking into a hotel. Instead, he flagged down a taxi outside Heathrow, and directed the driver straight to the one place he hoped to God he’d find Jason—Market Garden.
The streets of central London were always snarled with traffic, and tonight was no exception. As the cab crawled through the congestion, occasionally darting down side streets and shortcuts, Blake stared out the window, not really focusing on anything, but trying to avoid the clock on the dash. He didn’t check his phone except to see if Jason had emailed him, which he hadn’t, and he definitely didn’t check his watch, which he hadn’t bothered to reset when he’d landed. His body clock was more fucked up than usual thanks to the sleepless flight; he didn’t need to know how fucked up it actually was.
The cab let him out in front of Market Garden. With his stomach in knots, Blake paid the driver in cash and didn’t wait for the change.
At the brothel’s front door, he halted.
What the hell am I doing?
Less than twenty-four hours ago, he’d been home, losing his mind over Jason, and now he was here. And . . . now what? How was this going to play out? Would Jason be here? Would he already be spoken for tonight?
Blake shook himself. He stepped back from the door and rubbed a hand over his face, his palm hissing over his five-o’clock shadow. This was utter insanity. He was Jason’s client, not his boyfriend. A john. A man who’d spent a hell of a lot of money to spend time with him, in and out of the bedroom—that was all they’d ever negotiated, and all this would ever be.
Except someone had forgotten to give him the memo, and now he was in deeper than he had any right to be.
How do you think this is actually going to end?
Sighing, he rubbed his eyes, a sleepless flight’s worth of fatigue pressing down hard on his shoulders.
But he hadn’t gotten anywhere in life without taking risks. Big risks. Risks that had cost him jobs, homes, dignity. Would being rejected by Jason be any more humiliating than when he’d crawled back to his mother’s house after the money ran out?
He hadn’t come all this way to turn around and slink back to New Jersey. And Jason was a reasonable, intelligent guy—surely they could have a civil conversation about this, even if the feelings weren’t mutual. Awkward, and maybe disappointing, but civil.
Nothing ventured, nothing gained.
And nothing lost.
But nothing gained.
He closed his eyes, took a deep breath. No, he wasn’t turning back.
Before he could talk himself out of it, he walked inside.
A few steps in, he paused. He had no idea how many times he’d been here. It had become familiar like his favorite coffee shop in Canary Wharf and that pub he loved a few blocks away from Piccadilly Circus. He knew the rhythm and the sounds and the faces, had memorized the décor to the point that he noticed if the tables had been slightly rearranged or if there was a new picture on the black-painted wall.
Tonight, it was like wandering into a place he hadn’t been in years. Returning to somewhere he’d never intended to see again.
He left his overnight bag at the coat check, and headed into the lounge, hoping with every step that Jason would be here, and also praying that he was far from here. At his flat, watching DVDs, relaxing—anything that wasn’t enticing another man to part with money in exchange for his company.
There.
In a booth at the edge of the room, long fingers around a mostly empty glass, Jason grinned and gazed into the eyes of a man in a flawlessly cut suit. Judging by the way the man squirmed, Blake hadn’t arrived a moment too soon. There was a familiar gleam in Jason’s eye—they were negotiating a price, and the man was nearing a figure that would guarantee him the night of his life.
Blake rocked from his heels to the balls of his feet. Jason was already spoken for tonight. Now would be the time to walk away, go get a hotel room, and spend the evening reminding himself what a goddamned idiot he was for thinking this was a good idea.
Right then, Jason glanced his way, and did a double take. His eyes widened.
Beside him, the john turned, and seemed to home right in on Blake. His lips pulled across his teeth, and his eyebrows lowered enough to dare Blake to even think about interrupting.
Turn around.
Walk away.