Country Mouse (2 page)

“Certainly not getting Italian schoolgirls shitfaced. That way lies disaster.” The guy quirked another grin that seemed to suggest he was only temporarily not in a disaster-causing mood. “Otherwise, I’m looking for a hookup, as my original one seems to be stuck in a Tube tunnel or chickened out.”

“Chickened out? Not exactly a stellar recommendation for you as a hookup, is it?” Owen took another sip, the burn from that big swallow giving him courage. “I might be safer with the Italian schoolgirls.”

“Safer, yes,” the stranger said, as though he were actually thinking about it. “More satisfied? I highly doubt it.”

Owen took a deep breath and shook his hair out of his face. He tilted his head back and looked at the mysterious stranger from half-lidded eyes.  Slick.  Slick and arrogant. Not usually Owen’s flavor, but then, there was always the possibility of something softer underneath the silk-suit veneer. “I’m a bit of a country mouse, here. Do you really think I’m up to your big-city, pricey-vodka seduction? I could be the most disappointing hookup in the history of ever. Maybe you should move on.”

The stranger flicked a finger against Owen’s cheek, and Owen flinched from the touch, which was both impersonal and intimate at once.  He’d thought it was Americans who intruded on personal space by British standards. “You talk too much,” the man said with speculation. “I’d love to see you gagged.”

When his mother had talked about having an adventure, she probably hadn’t meant, “Find a random British psychopath and get gagged and tied down and dismembered.” That was stuff for the worst news stories, right?
Missing American male (23) found in two suitcases on the bottom of the River Thames.
Not exactly the role he’d audition for, the sane part of him thought.

But his sense of adventure (fine, other parts, too) readily agreed. Fantasy stuff, things he’d dreamed about but hadn’t been quite ready to contemplate actually doing. But shouldn’t he know this guy better first? At least, you know, have a name or something?

His phone buzzed, and he grimaced, then reached sheepishly into his pocket to pull it out. Fantasies were one thing, but getting picked up in a bar without telling anyone where you were was not practical.

Mysterious Stranger raised his eyebrow, and then leaned intimidatingly close—close enough to see Jenny’s text:
Where R U?

Some bar in Soho.
He looked meaningfully at Mysterious Stranger and added,
Getting hit on by some prick who hasn’t even told me his name.

A soft exhalation told him the man had read that and was highly amused. Good. Let him be amused. But he was going to have to cough up a name before he got Owen anywhere
near
a bottle of lube and a (shudder
)
blindfold and plug. (Okay, where had the plug come in?)

Is he cute?!
was the reply.

He’s really hot, if you like uptight yuppies with too much hair gel.

The sound behind Owen was indignant this time, and a pointed chin dug into his shoulder as the stranger cast all the rest of his personal space in the crapper and got close enough behind him to breathe in his ear. Which, of course,
so
not fair.

But you DO like uptight yuppies with too much hair gel!
Jenny complained, and Owen closed his eyes in embarrassment. Of course—the problem with friends was that they knew you.

“You’ll like me, I swear,” Mysterious Stranger promised.

Aren’t you supposed to be getting laid?
Owen asked Jenny, scowling.

Yeah, but that was a SHORT performance.
He could almost hear her answering scowl in the words on the small screen.

“Sign off,” Bossy Stranger muttered in his ear. “You talk too bloody much on the phone, too.”

“Not until I get a name,” Owen replied pertly. “I need to tell her who to have the police searching for when I don’t show up in the morning.” On the phone he texted,
Yeah, sometimes, with quickies, shortness is guaranteed.

“No such thing here,” Mystery Man said. Owen should probably call him Jack the Ripper, just to rile him up more. But then the man said, “Malcolm. Kavanagh. Only one in the city, you can check me out on Facebook or something.”

Malcolm ran his hands along Owen’s flanks, a strong grip promising control.

“Fucking queers,” somebody muttered from the corner.

Owen jerked, and Malcolm half-turned, but let him go only slowly, reluctantly. “This can go two ways,” Malcolm said. “Either we depart now, or I’m taking that arsehole’s teeth first.”
First
being the operative, very-much-emphasized word here.

“Are you going to need help with that?” Owen asked, “or can you take on a shitload of rednecks all by your lonesome?” On the phone he texted,
Malcolm Kavanagh, so you know which guy to bail out of jail with me,
and Malcolm turned to look at him.

“Well, I’d like to think you’d help.”

Owen shrugged, but stood up. His cousins had been a rowdy bunch of kids; he’d never backed down from a fight.

The gaggle of guys in the corner measured them for a few moments, doing some quick calculations, but clearly the thought that the queers wouldn’t just scamper off hadn’t figured. “No hard feelings, mate,” one of them said and lifted his beer glass. Thankfully, somebody on the TV scored a goal just then, and the men turned quite touchy-feely themselves with hugs and shoulder slaps.

“Opium for the masses,” Malcolm said. “Let’s go before they realize how gay they look.”

Owen snickered, then covered his mouth. He took one more look at his phone (which was still clenched in his hand) and told Jenny,
Give your guy a lick-me-up, and see if he’s good for another round. I have a feeling I’ll be late.

Malcolm inhaled the more-or-less fresh air deeply. Why was it that fresh air rarely sobered, only made him more aware that he was getting drunk?
Drunk
—the thought made him snort. If he’d eaten anything at all today, he wouldn’t even be feeling the three shots. They’d barely have counted as a warm-up during his apprenticeship at the trading desk. But then, he’d learned under Bill “Water Buffalo” Porter, whose idea of a drink after work was to lay waste to at least one bar and one strip club.

Good old days. He rolled his neck. “Nicer bar, food, or my place?” he asked the wide-eyed Yank he’d somehow acquired in that pisshole.

The Yank was cute, looked innocent, but Malcolm had really only decided to fuck him when he’d faced the bullies, too. He didn’t like queens in distress, so this was a refreshing change. He was well-built, too, really quite pretty. Not that Malcolm always had the highest standards.

“Food,” said the Yank. “I’m starving.”

“Aren’t you young enough to survive on other fuel?” Seriously, where was the spirit of adventure in this man? Sure, he’d been willing to stand up to the proles, but otherwise, he seemed to be milking the “country mouse” bit way too hard.

The Yank stopped suddenly in the street. “Hi,” he said, his face flat and unfriendly. “My name is Owen Watson. I’m twenty-three, bisexual, and I’ve been in your country exactly seventeen hours. In that time, I’ve eaten some shitty beer and half a shot of vodka. Before I see how serious you are about a gag, I’d really like a fucking burger, if you don’t mind.”

Oh, this was
much
better. Malcolm found himself smiling—not a quirk of the lips, but a full, dimple–to-dimple grin. “Do you expect me to pay for that?” he asked, although he fully intended to.

“Only if you plan to top,” Owen said sourly. “That’s how we do things in the States. If you’re gonna get fucked, you get dinner first.”

Not a rule Malcolm recognized from his brief stint on Wall Street, but he did like that the kid was making him work for it.
Kid.
He was barely six-and-a-half years older. “I know just the place. If it’s still there; places in London have recently been opening and closing faster than a cheap whore’s legs.” He glanced around, got his bearings and headed down one of the dark alleys, cutting through the occasional group of tourists braving the cold, but he kept an eye on Owen to make sure he was following. “Bisexual? Aren’t we all a bit? Girlfriend? She the one you’re texting?”

Owen shook his head. “No, she’s a friend. She had the money, wanted a friend on the trip. I wanted the trip, didn’t mind being a friend.”

“So,” he asked, still amused, “how bisexual are you?”

“I’ve had three serious relationships.” Owen sounded resentful, as if wondering who Malcolm was to ask him to quantify. “Two female, one male. They all ended well, we’re still friends, but my ex-guy is dating my ex-girl, and Jenny’s currently getting banged by the guy she had before me. Are we all caught up now?”

“Serious? And you’re still friends? You’re the forgiving kind.” Or a pushover. Or possibly a really well-adjusted kid. It would be interesting to find out which.

“I’m all about the forgiveness,” Owen said, and Malcolm couldn’t tell if he was being bitter or not.

“Well, nothing to forgive about
this
place.” Malcolm pointed at the Soho branch of Gourmet Burger Kitchen, then opened the door for Owen and let him pass through first. So what, he could be chivalrous to a guy too.

The Asian waiter eyed them for moment, then led them to a table when Malcolm indicated with a hand signal he wanted one for two.

The waiter gave them the whole “We’re family here” spiel and asked if they’d been there before, but Malcolm waved him off after the drinks order. No more alcohol; he did want all his facilities ready and sharp to deal with the Yank in the most satisfying manner possible. For both of them. Wouldn’t do to miss a hint because he was pissed, or even a bit flaky.

He decided quickly on his favorite—the Bleu Cheese burger—and then watched Owen study the menu. Owen wanted the Wellington, so Malcolm headed to the counter, where he ordered, quoted his table number, and then returned to his seat. And couldn’t help imagining what he’d do to Owen.
With
him. It was always two who played that particular game.

His BlackBerry buzzed in his pocket, and when he pulled it out he saw a spark of sarcasm in Owen’s eyes. He winked, checked the number and answered, leaning backward, one arm outstretched and placed on the table as if he were pushing himself away from it. “Yes?”

“Shit, Malcolm, I’m so sorry, the train . . .”

“Don’t worry about it.” Peter? Paul? John? Something. “Plans have changed; we’ll have to move the meeting.”

“What? Are you serious? I’ve come up all the way—”

“I’m not waiting for an hour in some Soho pisshole for a chance to whip your ass red. We need to introduce a little respect into our ‘relationship,’ and we’ll start today. Spend the weekend thinking about how to make amends, and I might talk to you again. And don’t you dare call me before Monday.” He disconnected, slipped the phone back into his pocket and studied Owen for a response. “Looks like I just freed up all weekend.”

Owen was not looking impressed. “Excellent. Who are you picking up after we’re done eating?”

Malcolm flushed. “I didn’t say I was going to whip
your
ass red. That has to be earned.”

Owen rolled his eyes. “Bullshit.”

“Bullshit?” It wasn’t his word, and his inflection at the end of it proved it. Owen arched his eyebrows, and his eyes—plain, ordinary brown—were suddenly dark and arresting. Malcolm found himself swallowing.

“Bollocks,” Owen said smugly. “Tripe. Shite. Waste. What-the-fuck-ever. A dinner? Yeah, sure. I might even kiss you goodnight on the cock. But I’m nobody’s fuck toy, so get that straight right now.”

Malcolm recovered himself—indignation did that to you. “He’s not my fuck toy—that sod was
begging
for what I had to dish out.”

Owen rolled his eyes again. “I’m sure he was. But don’t expect me to beg for a damn thing, okay?”

He looked like a kitten—jeans, school sweater, little-boy hair—but he was showing the same backbone he’d shown in the bar, and Malcolm liked it. He smiled in admiration, but those brown eyes didn’t soften.

Malcolm let out a little bit of the starch in his middle. “I swear to you, Yank, if you’re begging by the end of the night, it’s because you really want something you know I’ll give you. Now do you care to tell me about that incestuous little disaster of ex-fuck-all, or are you going to let me make up my own story?”

Owen looked moodily at the counter, like he could will his Wellington faster, and Malcolm resisted the urge to do the same. It was somehow easier to talk about hard stuff if you weren’t gnawing on the table to stay sane.

“My mom’s very liberal,” Owen said with a little smile. “She told me my whole life I could kiss any-damn-one I wanted.”

Malcolm snorted. “And you did.”

“No!” Owen protested, picking at the table. “No. Just the people that turned my key. But . . .” He sighed. “I like commitment, okay? I like it a lot. And they didn’t. But they still cared about me
.
And good friends are harder to get than lovers—”

“Who cheated first?” Malcolm demanded, not wanting to hear him defend them anymore. Besides the Jenny girl, who was hopefully getting fucked raw by who-the-hell-cared, he was pretty sure there were bad guys in these relationships and the Yank kitten wasn’t one of them.