Men of London 03 - Suit Yourself (6 page)

He huffed angrily at that reminder of just
how pathetic he’d become and stalked through to the bedroom to
change. He’d better get his arse into gear and make his way down to
the little coffee place not too far away. It was quiet, secluded
and the manager knew him well enough to know he didn’t want any
attention.

Oliver would hate to feel the wrong side of
Katie’s fist in his ribs. That woman packed a mean punch.

* * *

It was close to six p.m. when Oliver got
home. He was both mentally and physically exhausted. He loved
Katie, but she was hard work. They’d met on the set of one of his
porn shoots; she’d been writing an article for a well-known
lifestyle magazine on the relative difficulties of sustaining a
true relationship given what the men involved did for a living. It
had been a tasteful, sensitive article, highlighting the conflicts
between separating the day job from the emotional and physical
needs of having a lover, and had focused on the few monogamous
relationships in the crew that Oliver had worked with.

Katie had been with him when he’d woken up,
bleeding and broken in the hospital, in the aftermath of his
coke-and-drink-fuelled orgy. She’d been his rock and his tormentor
through the weeks and months that followed, refusing to give up on
him.

Oliver poured himself a drink and sat down in
the armchair overlooking the tatty garden. He got comfortable and
draped his legs over the chair arm as he sat back at an angle,
sipping his gin and tonic.

His iPad sat on the side table and he picked
it up and idly flicked through his social networking sites. He used
the name Justin Brown on most of them, Justin being his middle
name, but kept his private details hidden and interacted only as
much as he needed. It kept him in touch with the outside world to
some small extent.

Oliver frowned when he saw a particular email
in an inbox he monitored but had no reason to use any longer. It
was on his old website,
www.nickystarr.co.uk
. The site was still
active but he hadn’t refreshed it in years. He still received a
mountain of emails, mostly from men asking him if he was around
either to fuck or be fucked. He ignored them all, but this one
piqued his interest when he saw it was a Jacqui Lawson e-card sent
by one Leslie Scott. Surely, it couldn’t be the same man, could it?
Curious, he opened it.

The card was called ‘Monkey Business’ and as
Oliver watched, his lips curved in a smile.
This
man is seriously goofy
. He was also cute as a button, plus
stunningly beautiful. Oliver couldn’t deny the warm feeling in his
chest at the fact Leslie had actually taken the trouble to send him
the card in the hope it would find him. When the little sketch with
the organ grinder and the monkey had finished, the card read,

I hope you get this. Your
website is one of my most browsed. Sorry I was such an idiot. I
really didn’t mean to offend you so I hope you can forgive me if I
said anything. Sometimes my mouth runs away with me.

Oliver snorted with laughter, feeling
cheerier than he had in a while. He didn’t doubt the truth of
that
statement.

I’d appreciate the chance
to make it up to you. I’m giving you my mobile number and perhaps
you’ll call me and we can have coffee sometime. I’m not a stalker,
promise.

Your # 1 Fan, Leslie
Scott.

PS I pinkie swear that I
only told my two BFFs about you. They won’t talk. They know better.
I honestly couldn’t NOT tell them

Another statement Oliver didn’t doubt, even
though it made him a little twitchy.

PPS I hope you get a chance
to wear the suit. I think you’d look awesome in it.

A mobile number was listed at the end.

Glowing warmly inside, Oliver thought that
maybe he might have made another friend. Someone who’d seen him at
his worst and still wanted to be with him. He might just take
Leslie up on his offer of coffee soon.

His old porn slogan, ‘Get it On’ flitted
across his mind. Perhaps he’d do exactly that. The thought made him
fall asleep with a soppy grin on his face.

Chapter 5

“Leslie. There you are.” Laverne’s strident tones
echoed in Leslie’s ears. He stopped what he was doing, which was
unpacking a recently arrived bale of silk into the storage
cupboard, and smiled. He always welcomed an opportunity to speak
with his boss.

“Morning, boss. And may I say you look
stunning today? Very professional.”

Dressed in a smart grey suit of her own
design, with a ruffled white blouse and heels Leslie would kill
for, Laverne grinned back with pale pink lips. “Well, thanks for
noticing,” she chirruped as she came to a halt before him. “I have
a meeting with the bank today so I thought I’d better tone it down
a bit.” Laverne smiled wickedly. “I don’t want to overshadow them
with my more fabulous self when I’m asking them to give me
money.”

She grimaced as Leslie quickly finished
arranging the bale
just so
on the shelf
and closed the door. “I hate the bastards, watching their eyes
glaze over when they see me then having to kow-tow to their
officious arses. I suppose that’s just the way of it.”

Leslie nodded sagely. “My bank manager always
insists on calling me Mr. Scott, which makes me feel like my dad
and then proceeds to tell me yet again what an overdraft is made
for.” He sniffed. “Apparently it’s not supposed to go over the
limit all the time, and he gets quite agitated when I try to
explain that that’s what I thought it was
for
. Hence the word,
over
.
I’ve no idea what the ‘draft’ thingie comes from though. That
doesn’t make any sense at all. I mean, that’s something a writer
does, like, with his first story, or when a cold wind blows through
your door.” Leslie shrugged.

Laverne chuckled, a deep, amused sound that
made her broad shoulders shake. “Oh, I’d love to be a fly on the
wall when you speak to your bank manager. You are too damn
adorable.”

Leslie grinned. “Maybe next time he phones me
up with that apprehensive quiver in his voice, I should take you
with me as my financial advisor. Now
that
would be a fun meeting.”

Laverne rolled her eyes and snorted. “Leslie
Scott, you are a demon incarnate. I wouldn’t wish the two of us on
any unsuspecting bank manager. Now, sweetie, I need a BIG favour
from you.” Her eyes glinted with mischief.

Leslie’s gut roiled just a little.

“What do you need?” he asked cautiously,
casting a furtive eye at the door in case someone was looking for
him and he could be called away.

“Well, Dasher can’t make it to the fashion
show tomorrow night, some family emergency, so I need you to fill
in for him.” Laverne showed white teeth as she smiled.

Leslie’s arse clenched in fear. “Oh hell, no.
No way. Nuh-huh. Not me.”

Dasher Godfrey was an icon in the fashion
team, a man with nerves of steel and an unrelenting demeanour of
tough, no-holds-barred attitude, who rousted all the models for the
fashion shows and ensured they got on the catwalk on time and
appropriately attired. It was a job he relished and everyone else
dreaded. For him not to make it to an event, the family emergency
had to be dire.

The models, male and female alike, with a few
exceptions, it had to be said, were known in the company as
the spawn from hell
, and Leslie had no
desire to be their next meal.

Laverne tut-tutted. “Now, Leslie, I know you
can do it. Dasher isn’t there but Bruce is, so all you’ll really be
doing is helping him herd the troops, do little jobs, stuff like
that. Nothing too onerous.”

The news that Bruce Mitchell, Dasher’s
part-time and very put-upon assistant, would be there was
definitely a more palatable idea, but still Leslie demurred.
“Laverne, you simply
cannot
ask that of
me. I know nothing about getting the demons ready for the show, and
hell, Dasher has an ulcer, is that what you want to do to me as
well—”

A large, warm finger shut his flapping
lips.

“Leslie, you can do it. And think of this as
another thing to add to your CV. If you want to work in this
industry, honey, you need to man up and grow a pair and face the
terror that is the dressing room. It will be a wonderful experience
for you.” The finger was removed and Leslie opened his mouth to
argue but Laverne waggled that finger in front of his face.

“No, no, no. It’s a done deal. Tomorrow
night, six p.m., at Mystique. I’ll tell Brucie you’re more than
happy to help.” With an airy wave and a waggle of her taut, muscled
bottom, Laverne left the storeroom, no doubt prowling down the
corridor to find another victim for a life-or-death favour.

Leslie scowled. “Crap and fuck,” he muttered
to himself as he picked up another bale of silk ready to pack away.
“That’s all I need.” His face brightened as an idea came to him.
“Maybe I can convince Taylor to come out tomorrow night with me and
help. Eddie’s had his turn to keep me company so I have a feeling
Tay may be next to be subjected to the puppy-dog-eyed look. I did
share my secret with him, after all.”

Having met the infamous Nicky Starr, Leslie
had been catapulted to almost superstardom in Eddie and Taylor’s
eyes. They enjoyed his films as much as Leslie and were keen to
encourage him to pursue
Oliver Brown,
as
it meant they might get to meet him, too. He’d made them pinkie
swear not to tell anyone, including Gideon and Draven, even though
he knew that was a lost cause. Eddie couldn’t keep a secret. His
freckled face was too expressive. But Leslie knew he could trust
all four men to keep Oliver’s situation under wraps.

Buoyed with his idea of having moral support
and having backup for the event from hell tomorrow night, he
finished packing the material and then went in search of sustenance
in the form of Red Bull and a chicken Caesar salad.

* * *

“Kill me. Kill me now.” Leslie’s muttered
growl was aimed at his rather limp BLT sandwich as he took the last
savage bite out of it and threw away the empty wrapper. He glowered
as he surveyed the maelstrom of activity that was the models’
changing room. Beautiful men and women in various stages of undress
assailed his weary eyes. His fingers were pricked bloody through
various efforts to pin up fabric and tuck away bits that both the
models and Laverne deemed unsuitable. He was bone tired, ratty and
ready to go home.

He’d known he wasn’t cut out for the constant
pandering and sycophancy that went with keeping a fleet of highly
paid divas in control, but this evening had been more than he could
bear.

And that traitor Taylor, whom he’d thought
would be sympathetic to his woes, was chatting up the naked
man-hottie, a model called Reuben, on the other side of the room,
and he was smiling and laughing as if he was born to be in a room
with dicks, crotches, bums, tits and other unmentionables that
Leslie wasn’t prepared to name. Leslie wondered spitefully if his
fiancé, Draven, knew about his lover’s proclivity to flirt like a
man-slut.

“Saying the forbidden name Voldemort has
nothing on this,” he muttered darkly. “There are lady bits
everywhere…I can’t even…” He shuddered. One of the models, Sasha,
aimed a gimlet eye in his direction, and he closed his eyes,
wishfully thinking if he couldn’t see her, she wouldn’t see him. It
was a fruitless exercise. When he opened them, she stood in front
of him, dressed only in a blue, sequinned thong which he might have
fancied himself, her pert breasts only two inches from his
face.

Leslie swallowed at having so much female
flesh in close proximity. One of her manicured hands held out a
stick of what looked like chalk.

“Rouge me,” Sasha demanded and he stared at
her blankly. From the corner of his eye he noticed Taylor glancing
his way and moving toward him.

“Err, what?” Leslie said blankly.

Sasha clucked in impatience and stepped back
a little. “Rub this,” she held up the chalk, “On these.” With her
other hand, she indicated her breasts.

Leslie’s jaw dropped wide open. Of all the
things he’d had to do tonight, this had to be the worst.

“Why?” he said feebly. “I mean, you’re going
to be wearing something over them. A suit, aren’t you? No one will
see them…” His voice tailed off at the narrowed and angry eyes of
the model.

“I
will know,” she
imperiously. “It is a custom for me, and I want you to do it. Now.
Put it on my nipples.”

She forced the chalk into Leslie’s hands and
his gut churned. If Laverne hadn’t been watching him with hawk eyes
from the other side of the room, he’d have turned tail and run.

“I’d suggest you get to it, Leslie.” Taylor’s
barely contained chuckle at his side caused Leslie to glower darkly
at his friend. “I mean, you don’t want to mess with Sasha’s
traditions, do you? That’s bad luck.” He snorted loudly.

“Fuck you,” Leslie mouthed at him. Taylor
bent over in laughter.

“Da
.” Sasha nodded
fiercely, her eyes conveying her approval of Taylor’s words. “Bad
luck not to do it.” She thrust her chest and dusky nipples out
toward Leslie. He gave a heart-wrenching sigh of resignation and
with shaking hands, raised the reddish chalk towards the pinnacles
of female perfection. Wincing, he circled one with the chalk, once,
twice then did the same to the other. The nipples now stood out
darkly against Sasha’s tanned skin and she stared at them
critically. Then she bestowed a dazzling smile on Leslie and leaned
forward to kiss him on the forehead.

“Spaseeba
,” she
squealed, turned and disappeared with a flourish of tanned, very
firm arse. Leslie levelled his fiery gaze at Taylor who was
struggling to keep his composure.