If It Fornicates (A Market Garden Tale) (11 page)

When he pulled an all-nighter with a client, Nick usually woke up drained but ready to make a professional, businesslike, and quick—he hoped—escape with money in his pocket. Some clients liked keeping him around for a little while. Now and then, they negotiated one last go-round between coffee and Nick’s cab. Usually, though, he’d exhausted the fuck out of them, and they had just enough energy left to pay him and send him on his way.

Which was part of the reason mornings with Spencer never got old. Even when Spencer had just been a client—and maybe that should’ve been Nick’s first clue that things were changing between them—the mornings had been low-key. Relaxing. Hell, they’d been
enjoyable
. And especially since they’d moved beyond rentboy/john, sometimes they lounged around in the mornings, especially if Spencer didn’t have to go off to work at some early hour. Or they’d shower together. If Nick woke up first and got into the shower, he’d invariably be towelling off when he smelled the delicious fragrance of whatever Spencer was cooking for breakfast down the hall.

This morning was no different. They’d separated during the night, as they often did, but as Nick stirred, and a moment later Spencer did too, they gravitated towards each other again. Nick wrapped his arm around Spencer like he had last night. Spencer slung his arm lazily across Nick’s stomach.

“So we have all day.” Nick kissed Spencer’s forehead. “Question is, what do we do with it?”

“Hmm. I guess your arm would get tired if you beat me all day.”

Nick laughed. “Yes. Yes, it would.”

Spencer chuckled. “Well, what do you think about going out?”

“Out?” Nick looked down at him. “Like, out where?”

“Don’t know.” Spencer lifted his shoulder in a sleepy shrug. “Go into the city. Get something to eat. I think the Tate has an Impressionist exhibit right now.”

They were really doing this? An actual . . . date?

“You sure you don’t mind being out in public with me?” Nick immediately wanted to take it back; he didn’t like the insecurity that had crept into his tone. He cleared his throat. “I mean, my clients are out there.”

Spencer pushed himself up onto his elbow and met Nick’s eyes. “Most of them would be discreet, wouldn’t they?”

“True.” Nick shrugged. “Most people don’t like advertising the fact that they’ve rented someone like me.” He reached up and touched Spencer’s face. “But they might recognize me.”

“Well, if we’re going to be doing this,” Spencer said, pausing to kiss Nick’s palm, “then people will see us out and about. They’ll have to get used to it, and so will we.”

Nick couldn’t find his breath. Of course they were dating, and Spencer had never judged him for being what he was, but his unflinching acceptance that people ought to just get used to seeing them together was . . . unexpected.

“Are you sure?” he asked softly. “I mean, I’d love to, but . . .” He raised his eyebrows. “You’re really okay with us being out together in public?”

“Of course.” Spencer smiled. “You’re my boyfriend. I’m not going to hide you.”

Nick swallowed. “Okay, then. What do you have in mind?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Spencer shrugged. “Lunch and a visit to the Tate?”

Nick chewed on the idea for a moment, then nodded. “Sure. Let’s go.”

They got up and showered. Not together, or they’d never get anywhere except back into the bedroom. After they’d dressed—so domestic, keeping clothes at Spencer’s house like he’d started doing recently—they had some coffee and a light breakfast, and then headed out into the city. In public. Together.

Spencer took him to a small brasserie in Soho for lunch, tucked away and not overrun by tourists, even on a Saturday, and it all felt so normal. But in a good way, not a boring one. In fact, he got a kick out of flirting in public with Spencer, easily the best-looking guy around, and hitting the submissive button every now and then. He’d give Spencer an order where other boyfriends would have phrased things as a request, and he loved how Spencer responded immediately. He especially loved how Spencer would not just obey, but give him one of those sexy looks that promised submission and acceptance and scorching sex when they returned.

From there, they took the Tube to Southwark and walked to the imposing brick mountain of the former power station that now housed the Tate. He hadn’t known that Spencer was into art, though his house certainly suggested that he appreciated good design. Nick had been to too many clients’ houses to assume that gayness came with inbuilt good taste.

Wandering through the collection, it struck him that Spencer was pretty well-rounded as a human being. Many finance guys in the City only cared about art when they knew the price tag, as an investment, or as something to go with the couch. Spencer, on the other hand, could easily hold his own in a conversation about Expressionism, for example, and as a bonus, managed to not sound like a pretentious arsehole the way so many other people did when discussing art.

They discovered a new acquisition, too: a cycle of three WWI paintings by Johan Brasche, recently donated by an Anonymous. The first one was clearly a bit of a rip-off of a much better Brücke painting and brought back Franz Marc’s
Fighting Forms
—though this was whimsically called
Les Amoureux
,
The Lovers.
Spencer remarked that love and war were possibly quite a bit too close for comfort at times. The two other paintings, however, revealed an artist who’d discovered his own language. The palette was drab and murky, and in a nightmarish WWI landscape lay a man drowned—dead, anyway—in a pool in a bomb crater, just the line of a helmet or head, shoulders, and a back visible, but all identifying marks and colours and shapes made anonymous and meaningless by mud.

Le Baigneur. The Bather.

Nick reached for Spencer’s hand, and Spencer squeezed back. Whenever Nick felt that he was cruel and got a kick out of suffering, art like this reminded him of the real horrors of life and humanity. It had absolutely helped to keep himself sane when he’d doubted a great deal of what he wanted, or that it was
right
to want these things.

“Before we go through the Impressionists,” Spencer said at the end of the exhibit, “I could do with another coffee. Café’s on the top floor.”

Touted as one of the most family friendly places to eat, it shouldn’t have come as a surprise that there were families, some quite loud and happy, which usually irritated Nick. It wasn’t that he was antisocial, it was just that he normally preferred to have his caffeine surrounded by quiet. But with Spencer, he didn’t really mind a great many things that would normally have made him turn around and walk back out.

As they took places near the windows, he made eye contact with a man—good-looking, dark-haired, expensive watch—who was there with a woman and children Nick assumed were his family. Ice water ran down his back. A client. The man froze too, gaze darting to Spencer, back to Nick.

Then the man’s wife glanced over her shoulder, probably wondering what had caught her husband’s eye. To Nick’s horror, as soon as she saw them, she smiled and started in their direction. His heart stopped. This . . . wasn’t good.

“Spencer?” she said as she approached the table. “Is that you?”

Spencer turned towards her and jumped. “Linda? Long time, no see.” He stood, embraced her gently, and then looked past her and must have seen her husband, because his posture suddenly reflected the
oh fuck
twisting in Nick’s gut.

The husband strolled towards them, hands in his pockets and a weird look on his face. Not quite a smirk, not quite a scowl. A little bit smug and a little bit sheepish? God, he was tough to read.

When he’s dressed anyway,
Nick thought.

“And who’s your friend?” the oblivious woman asked, turning towards Nick.

Spencer glanced at Nick, then cleared his throat. “This is Nick.” Pause. Swallow. Heartbeat. “My boyfriend.”

The husband stopped so suddenly his shoe squeaked on the floor. “Your boyfriend?”

Nick eyed him coolly.
Yeah? What of it?
But secretly, he was just as stunned. Had Spencer really just outed himself?

“Oh.” Linda seemed startled by the introduction, but either recovered quickly or was just damned good at faking it, and extended her hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Nick.”

Nick smiled. “You too.” As he shook her hand, multiple thick rings cool against his fingers, he glanced at her husband, who’d paled.
Oh don’t look so disgusted, you prick. You’ve taken my dick up your arse.

Linda released Nick’s hand and stood beside her husband as Spencer made introductions, offering up only the man’s name—Glenn—but no further details about how they knew each other. Since Glenn had come into the Garden with Percy, the same guy who’d brought Spencer in the first time, it was a safe bet they ran in the same professional circles.

After some brief small talk, Linda said, “Well, this was certainly a surprise. And Spencer, we haven’t seen you in ages. You really must come to dinner again soon.”

Nick raised an eyebrow.

Spencer didn’t look at him. “I’d like that very much. Anyway, I won’t keep you.” He nodded towards the couple’s children—three boys, none older than ten—sitting at a table across the room. “Tell them I said hello.”

Why not have them come over here and say hello?
Nick thought.
Oh. Right. Boyfriend
.

The pair offered thin smiles, and then returned to their children. As they left, Spencer sat across from Nick again, releasing a breath as he dropped into the chair.

A waiter appeared and explained the daily specials. While they sounded good, Nick wasn’t hungry anymore, and Spencer didn’t order any food, either.

“Friends of yours?” Nick asked.

“He and I work together.” Spencer gave him a puzzled look. “Why? Do you know them?” Before Nick could even answer, the pieces must have fallen into place, because Spencer’s eyes widened and his spine straightened. “
Oh.
”

Nick dropped his gaze, thumbing the tiny vase in the middle of the table that held a single flower. “I think he recognized me too.”

“Well, you’re a difficult man to forget, Nick.”

He met Spencer’s eyes, and couldn’t help chuckling. “Glad I made an impression.”

Spencer smiled. He glanced at the couple again, then shook his head. “Well, I wonder if the entire office will know I’m gay by the time I get back to work on Tuesday.”

“You could blackmail him,” Nick said, only half-joking. “He outs you, you out him.”

Spencer laughed and clamped down on it when the waiter returned to set two coffees in front of them. “Nah. I think it’s time this cat came out of the bag anyway.” He gave the waiter a nod of thanks.

“They . . . the people you work with, they really don’t know?”

Spencer shook his head. “No. And I’m . . . I’m not even sure why I told them just now.” He looked Nick in the eye. “Just didn’t seem right to introduce you any other way.”

Nick swallowed. “Even if it meant outing yourself?”

Spencer nodded.

Nick wrapped his hands around his coffee cup, seeking the warmth in the ceramic mug. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“What else would I do?” Spencer asked softly. “I’m not ashamed of you. Why should I pretend to be?”

God. Spencer really did know how to get Nick right in the soft parts.

All Nick could offer as a response was a whispered, “Thank you.”

Spencer reached out and placed a hand on Nick’s wrist. “And I can stay out of his way, mostly. He’s the partner in charge of the tax practice. He’s pretty important, regularly makes the list of best lawyers. If anything, I’m too small fry for him to be interested in messing with my career.”

“You think he could?”

“Office politics.” Spencer waved a hand. “But they can’t really do much in any case. It’s illegal to discriminate against me, and there’s always the Darky Bonus.”

Nick didn’t catch the reference immediately, but then he winced. “Shit, Spencer, I . . .”

“It’s okay. Pretending it doesn’t exist is worse than acknowledging it.” Spencer took a mouthful of his coffee. “I just didn’t want to be a double minority, or I might have come out earlier.”

“That fucking place doesn’t deserve you,” Nick ground out.

Spencer smiled at him, warm and sweet. “Seems too late to leave now. I could potentially be partner in a year or two.”

“Is that what you want?”

Sighing, Spencer shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe when the job market thaws, I’ll go work for another firm. A place that’s a bit more . . . colourful.” He gave a snort of humourless laughter. “Can’t believe my office still doesn’t have a GLBTQ group. Though I haven’t made the effort to start one, either, so maybe that’s my fault.”

Great. High-stress job, habitual backstabbing in a place that didn’t value him and didn’t make him feel safe. And Nick had moaned about Market Garden on occasion. “It’s not your fault, Spencer. It’s their fucking job to make sure you feel comfortable and acknowledged. It’s maybe not common knowledge, but there’s plenty of evidence that non-discrimination policies and positive attitudes in the workplace towards minorities boost overall productivity.”

Spencer arched a questioning eyebrow. “You sound quite knowledgeable.”

“Well, I’ve studied motivation and burnout,” Nick muttered. “Academically.”

“You ever get burned out in your job?”

Nick whistled. “Oh, once in a while, yes.”
Though it’s not burnout lately, is it, Nick? You know better than anyone it’s not.
He shook the thought away and took a sip from his coffee. “But a physically demanding job like that isn’t quite so hard on the psyche as a soul-sucking job in a miserable environment, is it?”

Spencer pursed his lips. “You know, before I knew you, I’d have thought it was ironic, hearing that from . . . someone in your line of work. But now . . .”

Nick might have taken offence from anyone else. After hearing time and again how he was selling himself, devaluing himself, damaging his own soul, and all of that bullshit, his knee-jerk reaction was to lash out at whoever offered that kind of self-righteous pity. Except it wasn’t self-righteous pity coming from Spencer. Just a matter-of-fact observation coupled with the acknowledgement that perhaps he’d misjudged sex workers, Nick included.