Men of London 02 - Sight and Sinners (4 page)

But there was something else too. Guilt.

Taylor’s temper rose at the fact that this man had caused such a reaction in him with a few choice words. Little Bobby’s case was one that still resonated with Taylor, and hearing Draven speak so disparagingly of a little boy who had suffered horribly had cut him to the core. The scenes of Bobby’s death and the bond he’d had with the child when he’d been asked to help find him still gave him nightmares.

“You motherfucker,” he swore quietly as he gazed gimlet-eyed at the blond man. “What the hell are you still doing here? I’d have thought you’d have cut and run as soon as I hit the deck. You should have. Because when I get up I’m going to punch you in the damn face.”

Taylor’s legs still felt weak, so as tough as his threat might have sounded, he wasn’t yet ready to play it out. Eddie turned slowly to Draven and stared at him frostily. Taylor knew him to usually be an easy-going man, but when his red-headed temper flared, no one was safe.

“What the fuck did you do to him?” Eddie demanded as he moved closer to Draven. “Tay, you want me to smack him for you?”

Gideon snorted and laid a hand on his boyfriend’s arm. “Love, no one’s smacking the patrons of my restaurant,” he said in amusement. “Although if I find out Draven needs a good whack, I’m sure we can come to some arrangement outside.” His brown eyes stared at Draven thoughtfully. “What did you do to Taylor to make him fall down like that? He looked like a puppet with the strings cut. I saw him pole axe from across the restaurant.”

Taylor stood up, wobbling a bit as Eddie steadied him. “It was something he said that brought back a memory I’d rather forget,” he said quietly. The fight had disappeared from him and all he wanted to do was get home and curl up into a ball, preferably with a bottle of something, and try and forget the world for a bit. “I’ll be all right, Gideon. “

For the first time Draven spoke. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you faint. I shouldn’t have said what I did.”

“You bastard,” Taylor spat bitterly. “You think you can remind me about one of the worst events of my life and not have it affect me? You remembered all too well what it did to me the last time we met.”

He’d remembered who Draven was now. He’d met him at the scene when they’d found Bobby’s body. Well, where
he’d
found Bobby’s body and helped apprehend a child killer. He’d been called in to help the family trace their missing child, and he’d succeeded. It hadn’t been made common knowledge that it was his abilities that had done that. The police force was still wary of telling the general public that a psychic was assisting them in their enquiries and had succeeded where they hadn’t.

The area where Bobby had been dumped had been a wooded area deep in a forest, and when Taylor had spotted the boy’s dismembered limb lying in a bush of something with red berries, he’d thrown up then promptly passed out. The psychic energy and painful emotion emanating from the scene had been tremendous. Draven had been standing near the limb, a look of horror and pain on his face as he gazed down at what had once been a vibrant little boy.

The events after that hadn’t been much better. When he’d come to, Taylor had heard the sneering comment from Draven about people abusing others and leading them on to try and make themselves heroes, and good old-fashioned investigative police work won out every time rather than these “frauds” who played havoc with grieving people’s emotions. He’d had no doubt the nasty comments were directed at him.

“And just to set the records straight—
I
was the one who found Bobby and helped them get the guy who did it. The police kept it quiet and let the public think it was them because, well, because they didn’t want people to know a
fraud
had done what they couldn’t so far.” He spat the word out and watched Draven’s face pale. “I’m sure they would have found Bobby eventually. My mate Rick is a damn good copper and he’d have succeeded. But knowing I do what I do—he decided it was worth the chance. And I was more than happy to stay out of the limelight.”

Gideon and Eddie’s faces were a mixture of horror and anger as they gazed at Draven. They knew first hand of Taylor’s propensity to “see” things.

“He’s genuine,” Eddie burst out vehemently. “I can vouch for that. I’ve been on the receiving end of his so-called ‘fraudish’ abilities.”

“I said I was sorry.” Draven’s voice was even. “I don’t believe in all this hocus-pocus crap so it’s difficult to believe. Back then I saw you as someone just feasting off the grief of a family desperate to know what had happened to their kid. I didn’t know.”

“Yes, well, maybe next time you shouldn’t let your mouth run away with you.” Taylor was drained. He turned to Gideon and Eddie. “I need to go home. I’m knackered. Thanks for looking out for me, guys.” He clapped Eddie on the arm and moved toward the door.

Gideon stopped him. “I’ll run you home. I don’t want you passing out again.” He raised a finger at Taylor’s protest. “No buts. Let’s get your gear together—it’s at reception—and go. Babe, I’ll see you later.” He grinned as he stared at Eddie. “And please don’t beat up Draven when I’m gone. He might have been an arsehole but he’s a paying customer.” He cast a quick glance over at Draven then leaned over and gave Eddie a deep, loving kiss. Despite his bad mood and tiredness, Taylor smiled. He never tired of watching these two together. They’d been seeing each other for over six months now, and while Taylor missed his old housemate, he knew that Eddie belonged here with Gideon.

He moved toward the door, intent on collecting his belongings and getting the hell out of there, when Draven reached out a hand and gripped his shirt-sleeve. Taylor glared at him.

“Take your damn hand off me. Aren’t you scared you’ll catch something?”

Draven growled but removed his hand. “I just wanted to say I hope you feel better. But hey.” He waved a hand. “Feel free to leave.”

“I intend to,” Taylor growled back.

God this man makes me want to punch him.

He followed Gideon out the door.

*****

Draven stood, a little nonplussed at all the fuss he’d caused and shot a quick look at Eddie when the man gave an exasperated puff. His dark red hair was sticking up on his head like a parrot’s crest, probably because he’d taken off the chef’s cap he had tucked in the front of his rather mucky apron. He regarded Draven with a look of dislike in his green eyes.

“So, you make a habit of being a bitch then?” His eyebrows cocked and he folded his wiry arms across an equally wiry chest. Draven could see the attraction of the man. He was a feisty little bantam ready to do battle.

Draven held back a weary chuckle. Telling the man that
would
probably earn him a beatdown. “Taylor’s lucky to have you on his side. I guess before the glove hits the ground and you challenge me to a duel, I should get going myself. I still need to settle the bill. Everything happened a bit fast and I didn’t get the chance.”

Eddie waved a hand. “You’re damn right you’ll settle up. You’re lucky I’m not charging you a surcharge for all the fuss tonight.”

Draven smirked. “I thought this was Gideon’s place? Aren’t you just the chef?” The careless words were out before he could pull them back and he took an instinctive step back as Eddie’s face darkened and he moved toward him.

“You truly are a bastard, aren’t you?” Eddie poked a long boned finger at Draven’s chest. “Just a warning. Don’t cause Taylor any more grief. He’s been through enough lately, what with all the damn nightmares and stuff,” he broke off and sniffed. “Not that you’d care anyway. Now I hear a bus or something with your name on it. Time to go.”

Draven got the impression Eddie would have preferred him to be under the bus instead of in it. He was hustled out of the office then Eddie closed the door behind him.

“You know where the pay desk is. Have a nice rest of your night, arsehole.” He turned and strode off toward the kitchen, leaving Draven to pick up the pieces of his night.

Later that night as he drank whisky from a grimy tumbler, Draven had the strangest feeling that he’d be seeing Taylor Abelard again. Where that certainty came from, he didn’t know. When he got into bed that night, he jacked off to the thought of caramel eyes and warm lips and pale tanned skin that writhed against his in sweat and passion.

Christ, the damned man had certainly left a lasting impression.

Chapter 4

A week later, Taylor sat at the dining room table and stared at the newspaper with a feeling of disbelief. He’d just showered and come down to have a plate of granola before leaving for work.

How can they be having a service for Drew? I didn’t even
know
he was dead.

Now, though, the nightmares and events of the past few weeks now made terrible sense.

He swallowed bile as he finished reading the notice.

There will be a funeral service for Drew Whittaker on Friday 12th March at 09h00 at the Waltham Abbey Church. Donations please requested in lieu of flowers to The Suicide Prevention Fund set up in his name
www.Inmemoryofdrew.co.uk
. Thank you for being a friend of Drew. We hope his memory lives on in all of your hearts.

Taylor closed his eyes as the sick feeling in his stomach threatened to overtake him. He fought it off and took a couple of deep, calming breaths. Drew’s smiling face leapt up off the page. He and Drew went way back. They’d been occasional fuck buddies, mutual ‘blow jobbees,’ and had been jerking each other off for over a year off and on in the small hotel behind the music store. Drew was also a married man with two kids, whom he adored—or
had been
a married man, in any event. Taylor had never felt quite comfortable with being the “bit on the side” when the man had a wife at home, but Drew had assured that if not him, then it would be someone else. And he had really liked Taylor. That like had been reciprocated.

In his mid-forties, Drew had been a man so far in the closet that it would have taken him a week to get out of it. He’d been unrepentant about his need for younger men to give him the satisfaction he needed. Taylor and he had met at a grocery store and Taylor had instantly recognised the hunger in the other man’s eyes when they’d stood at the vegetable stall talking about the best melons to buy. One thing had led to another, there’d been a quick BJ in the customer bathroom—Taylor on his knees taking Drew’s big cock in his mouth and turning the man into a slush puppy—and the two of them had fallen into a comfortable rhythm of quick fucks and encounters to satisfy them both.

It had been no hardship for Taylor. Drew was a handsome man, slim and pumped from working out in his home gym, and Taylor had appreciated his considerable assets, especially when the man was pounding his arse. He’d also been a warm and generous lover and Taylor had even once thought that if Drew had been out of the closet, and not already attached, he might have considered a man like him permanently in his life. And now he was dead.

Taylor hadn’t seen him since the last very tasty suck off about three weeks ago. He’d thought nothing of it; Drew was a businessman who travelled all over the world and there was no commitment between the two of them to meet up with any regularity. That was what mobiles were made for. Insta-fuck was a new buzz word in Drew’s dictionary and Taylor had enjoyed being part of the conversation.

He stared dismally out of the window in the street beyond. He’d have to make a plan to go the memorial service. Drew deserved that much. At least he’d found the source of his nightmares. He still smelt the blood and shit in his nostrils, and felt the desperation permeating the air. He reached over and powered up the small netbook he kept on the table. With grim determination he began the search for local stories. Ten minutes later he found the news article.

Police were called in yesterday to the home of Drew Whittaker, 42, after neighbours reported hearing a loud noise. Mr. Whittaker was found dead in his study, at his home in Waltham Abbey, from what appears to be a self-inflicted gunshot wound. His wife and children were not in the house at the time but were told of his death and are currently being comforted by relatives.

A wealthy entrepreneur, Mr. Whittaker was well known in the city. His position as CEO and owner of his multimillion pound company, ‘Whittcon Enterprises,’ which specialised in the manufacture of computer chips for the digital market, was cemented in respect and admiration from his peers in the industry.

Foul play is not suspected. Investigations into Mr. Whittaker’s death are continuing.

Taylor gave a shuddering sigh and leaned back in the rickety dining chair. He felt a sense of helplessness that he hadn’t been there to soothe Drew with any demons he’d had. He’d never even known what he did for a living. There might have been no promises between them but Drew had still been a friend of sorts. His throat ached and he tried to hold back the hot tears that threatened to fall from eyes that felt gritty and sore.

“God, Drew,” he murmured as he closed the laptop. “What the hell happened to make you so desperate? Surely there was someone you could have talked to? I would have listened.”