Deliverance - Hooch and Matt's Story (20 page)

“What?” Hooch glanced across at Matt’s expression, as he finished the last of the many n/as.

Matt handed the piece of paper over. “It’s…comprehensive…” he choked, mind boggling. He wondered how big the building had to be to fit all those possibilities in.

“Not a fucking clue what most of that stuff is. Sounds more like a fashion mall than an S/M club.”

“There’s got to be something that you like there.” Matt worried a lip as he pondered just how many members there might be, if that much was on offer. The thought that anyone from the base would be in the same position as Hooch did not make him feel any better.

“It’s not about liking things, Matt. I don’t care what the place looks like, what props they have, none of that bullshit.” Hooch shrugged. “Does it say how many members they have?”

Matt shook his head. “No,” he paused, “but since they do emphasize confidentiality and discretion, I wouldn’t think that they would.” He sighed and put the piece of paper down, looking at Hooch. “Beer?”

“Beer.” Hooch confirmed. “Can’t say I’m looking forward to that interview. Stop me from punching the guy if he gets too annoying.”

“Will do,” Matt agreed, getting up and going to the fridge. “Sounded English,” he added, “posh, like their officers back in the Gulf.”

“Does that mean I have to dig out my upbringing?”

“I have no idea,” Matt said honestly, as he sat back down on the couch and handed Hooch the second bottle. Rare enough that Hooch made any allusion to his childhood and the wealth he’d left behind. There were occasional phone calls, and a present each Christmas from Hooch’s younger sister, but otherwise there seemed to be no contact with his family except for the odd summons back to Texas that Hooch obeyed only if it could not be avoided. The presents were luxurious and tasteful, but things that were very much not Hooch, such as cashmere scarves and sweaters, expensive sports watches, or exquisitely crafted cases and bags for his electronic gadgets that said, more than anything else, ‘I have absolutely no idea what you like or what you are like.’

“He’s looking for paying members for his club, not dinner party guests.” Matt pointed out.

“How much is the fee anyway?” Hooch clinked his bottle against Matt’s.

“Scaled,” Matt hedged, “depending on what you’re after.”

“Right…” Hooch took another mouthful of his beer. “That’s vague. What’s the scale? The starting point?”

Matt waited until Hooch had swallowed before giving him the figure.

“Holy fuck!” Hooch blurted out. “For that much I can expect getting my dick gilded.”

“For that much you can expect that nobody finds out,” Matt retorted.

“Score two to the golden boy here.” Hooch raised his bottle to indicate a salute to Matt. “Thank fuck I got money.” He suddenly laughed, a deep, throaty chuckle. “Damn, if that isn’t the best of it all.”

Matt looked at him in confusion.

“The money.” Hooch said, as if that explained everything.

“You’ve lost me.” Matt put the beer bottle down, wondering what had set Hooch off.

“My inheritance.” Hooch finished his beer. “Did I not tell you about it?”

“You’ve never said anything about your family.” Matt pointed out. “I’d always thought they were off-limits.”

“I have nothing to say about them. My sister’s alright, but not sure where she lives now. The rest are a bunch of dickheads who think money and social status are all that counts. And looks, for the ladies.” Hooch shrugged. “My family made big bucks in cattle and oil. Hardly ever saw my mother and father as a kid, business, society events, all that shit. Couldn’t care less about them. Inherited stuff from my grandfathers. Couldn’t stand either of them, but then they didn’t give a shit about kids unless they promised to take over the family business. I wasn’t having that.” Hooch fell silent, then, “as far as I remember I’ve got shares, cash, investments, bonds, and land.”

Matt’s jaw dropped open as he sat up straight. “So you’re telling me you’re loaded?”

“Guess so. Don’t know how much, haven’t checked in years. I could call my financial adviser.”

Matt shook his head. “I finally get why you were so insistent on trying to put money into this place,” his hand took in not just the apartment but the whole gym. He paused, realizing what Hooch hadn’t said. “They don’t know what it is you do, and they don’t know you’re gay, do they?”

“They know I’m army, which pissed them off when I enlisted. They were angry because I didn’t take over the family business and I didn’t even study, nor go for commission. They don’t know anything else, told them it’s classified. They’ve never asked.” Hooch tilted his head. “Sofia, my sister, she knows I’m Special Forces, but nothing personal. As for my sexuality, any idea what that perfect Texan society pair would do if their good family name was tainted that way?” He let out a humorless laugh. “I’m not going to be responsible for their early graves.”

Matt felt a rush of gratitude for his own family, the acceptance and love, and how they’d welcomed Hooch unquestioningly, for his sake. Clearly there had been a reason that Hooch’s family had been off-limits for so long. He put his hand on Hooch’s now-tense arm, a comfort more than any words could bring.

Hooch gazed down at Matt’s hand, and when he looked back up, he had visibly relaxed. “That’s why paying with my family’s money for getting off by having the crap beaten and fucked out of me,” he smiled to placate Matt, “made me laugh. It’s probably enough to pay for a lifetime of club membership, I’ll check tomorrow.”

Matt exhaled as Hooch seemed to come out of the low mood. Clearly yet another thing that would take careful handling in the future. He smiled, hand not leaving Hooch’s arm. “Good.” He looked at the time. “I’m starving. Do you want some food, too?”

“Let’s go out for food.” Hooch stood up, “I pay.”

Matt laughed in reply. “Why not? I’ve had a sugar daddy all these years and never known—might as well make up for lost time.”

The club looked like a low-rise office building, several levels and a basement parking lot that was card-access only. New, with lots of steel and concrete and tinted one-way glass. The automatic doors opened to a small reception area, which would have been claustrophobic had it not been open the entire height of the building, and lit by a false skylight that gave off a diffused glow. The security/reception desk looked like any other security/reception desk anywhere. The very attractive female receptionist, who greeted them and asked them to wait on the low black leather banquettes that surrounded the walls of the reception area, was wearing a beautifully-cut suit that was clearly made to fit her like a glove, and razor-sharp stilettos—she had the legs and body to carry both off.

The narrow black leather choker around her neck looked like a fashion statement, a contrast against the deceptively conservative outfit.

No hint of what this place was. Sleek and modern, with polished chrome, glass and steel, black leather and white tiles, it looked like some dot-com that had cleverly sold out at the top of the market and then invested the windfall into something even more lucrative and far more substantial. The windows, in the reception area at least, were covered by plasterboard from the inside so there was no chance of seeing in, or out.

One of the wall panels facing the main door pivoted and a young man came out. Like the receptionist, wearing a tailored suit that fit him exactly, but without a tie—so that the plain black leather collar was prominent against the crisp whiteness of his impeccably ironed shirt. “If you will follow me, please?” he asked, indicating the opening that he had just emerged from.

Behind the wall was a wide corridor. Like the reception area, it had been painted and tiled an off-white, with doors spaced on either side. At one of the doors the man stopped, knocked, and after a precise three seconds, opened the door and entered the room, holding it open for Hooch and Matt to follow.

The large office—though it was likely that the actual administrative work was done elsewhere—was, like the rest of the interior, sleek and modern. There were two large desks towards the end of the room, on a slightly raised dais. One aggressively tidy, as though it was just for show, and the other had a woman sitting behind it.

There were a number of low, black leather and chrome sofas in the middle of the room, and a man sitting on the one that faced the door.

Hooch’s eyebrows had raised considerably by now. What he thought of the whole thing was written clearly in his face, but for Matt’s sake and for the promise he’d made, he kept quiet and forced himself not to turn round on his heels and leave.

The impeccably dressed and equally perfectly groomed gentleman stood up as they entered. He took a couple of steps towards them, and with the poshest English accent either Matt or Hooch had ever heard, he greeted them while holding out his hand for a shake. “Good day, gentlemen. I am Mark Robertson, the proprietor of this establishment.”

He didn’t introduce the woman behind the desk, who kept her eyes downwards and on her work at all times.

A glance showed that Hooch wasn’t going to be doing anything, so Matt stepped forward to take the offered hand. “Matthew Donahue. This is Hubert Bozic.”

“Pleased to meet you Mr. Donahue.” Robertson cast a quick glance from Matt to Hooch who hadn’t moved yet, and seemed to come to a conclusion. He let go of Matt’s hand and addressed him again. “May I?” Indicating with an elegant hand movement to Hooch, who stared at Robertson in disbelief and confusion.

Matt’s eyebrows echoed Hooch’s and his expression was completely bewildered. “May you what?”

“May I shake Mr. Bozic’s hand.” Robertson explained mildly, with just the slightest bit of surprise, as if he hadn’t quite expected Matt not to understand his request straight away.

“Why the fuck is he asking you?” Hooch looked at Matt, his voice low and—only known to Matt who knew him so well—rather menacing.

Matt was feeling like he was in a play where everyone else had the script except him. He blinked. “Um, I think that’s up to him?” He hated how his voice went up at the end of the sentence, betraying just how confused he was.

“Ah.” Robertson made a delicate sound as he nodded his understanding of the situation. “Perhaps we should go through the application form in that case.” He held his hand out to Hooch, who shook it briefly, purely out of ingrained manners, then let go as quickly as he could, as if that finely manicured hand was poisonous. “Gentlemen, would you like to follow me?” Robertson gestured ahead and to a door, which led to a smaller room. Far more intimate, with equally modern, but more comfortable furniture: a U-shaped sofa arrangement of white leather and chrome with a low glass and chrome table in the middle.

Matt started to open his mouth, but decided that the morning was quite weird enough as it was and followed, nudging Hooch in front of him to make sure he didn’t slip away.

If Robertson noticed the nudge he didn’t let on as he closed the door behind them, and waited for his guests to sit down first. “Beverages will be brought in three minutes.” He smiled graciously. “May I take a look at the forms?”

Matt had them in a folder and handed them over, feeling more apprehensive than he’d ever been since seeking this place out. However weird it was, though, anything had to be better than a repeat of the disaster back in November.

Hooch leaned back on the couch, looking deceptively relaxed, but Matt could read the tension lines all along his body and in his carefully neutral expression.

“Thank you, Mr. Donahue.” Robertson pulled out the forms and cast a quick glance over them. His face didn’t show anything other than politeness. “Perhaps we should look at Mr. Bozic’s form first?”

Hooch shrugged.

That very moment, exactly three minutes after they had entered, the woman who had been behind the desk came inside after a knock. Eyes kept downwards, she entered with a tray with a variety of hot and cold beverages, which she arranged pleasantly on the table, including a plate of small, exquisitely looking British biscuits. She walked back out quickly and quietly, with Hooch staring at her as she walked to the door and out backwards, in unbelievably high stiletto heels, their ankle straps fastened to her slim ankles with small padlocks. She never presented her back to them, and the door closed as softly behind her as it had opened.

“Please, gentlemen, help yourselves.” Robertson said, before studying Hooch’s form.

Matt had been staring at the closed door, and blinked several times before turning back to Robertson.

This time it was Hooch who nudged Matt, before he reached for the delicate china coffee pot, pouring into two equally delicate china cups. Cream and milk were in polished silver vessels, and so was the sugar.

“Well, gentlemen,” Robertson looked up from the form with a courteous
smile, “I see there are quite a few questions that were answered with ‘n/a’. Do I understand correctly that neither of you has been a part of the scene yet?”

“No,” Matt shook his head, taking the cup from Hooch. “New for both of us, though it’ll be Hubert who’ll be coming, as I said.”

Hooch groaned. “Do me a favor, Matt. Not Hubert.” He took a sip from the far too dainty cup and focused on Robertson. “It’s Hooch, and no, I’ve never been into any ‘scene’. Looks like a lot of bullshit to me.”

Robertson inclined his head with a mild-mannered smile. If he was shocked at Hooch’s language, he didn’t let it show. “Hooch it is, then. Please do call me Mark, we like to have a friendly relationship with our members.” He looked at the form again. “Am I correct in assuming that you might not be familiar with the terminology on the forms?”