Screwing the System (3 page)

“Okay, then. I could use the time for checking out a new supplier.”

“There, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” Mavis grinned at him and flicked her bright red fingernails in the direction of the door. “Now scat, will you? I need to call my Rose and see what trouble she’s got into now. That bloody girl will be the death of me, I swear. Don’t ever have kids, you hear me?”

“Hardly likely, is it?”

“Oh, I don’t know. One of these days you might meet the right man and want to settle down and have sprogs. Or dogs. Actually, I’d stick to them. Get a lapdog like a Pomchi or something. I could knit it little outfits. You’d look cute carrying one of them around.”

Alasdair chuckled and made tracks out of Mavis’s office.

The Knotty Hill Golf Club bar was every bit as stuffy as usual, but since it was now the equivalent of his local, Alasdair supposed he ought to get used to it.

That was a problem he should have foreseen, having moved out to a large house in a genteel village. One so genteel it didn’t have anything as vulgar as a public house. To begin with, he’d been pretty much shunned by the other members, who had barely concealed their disdain after he’d revealed how he made his money. Roger had been different, however, joining Alasdair at his table in the corner and entertaining him with gossip about the bunch of fuddy-duddies who lived around here. With Roger on his side, Alasdair had become, if not embraced, at least tolerated by the others.

He settled into his wingback chair by the open fire, and pondered the stags’ heads lining the walls. Had they really been shot by members of the club, or had someone bought them all from an antiques dealer? He knew how easy it was to fake gentility, after kitting out his own place in the trappings of the upper classes.

It suited the house, though. It wasn’t like he was a class traitor or anything.

Alasdair wondered what young Cosmo would have to say about that. No doubt the lad assumed Alasdair was everything he presented as: a well-to-do, upper middle class businessman. If only Cosmo could have seen him fifteen years ago, when he was a surly young rebel with a chip on his shoulder the size of a bloody railway sleeper. He’d had more attitude than Cosmo, believe it or not.

Bloody hell, he had to get that Cosmo out of his head. But the challenge he represented had Alasdair itching to crack the whip. The things he wanted to teach that boy, and the things he wanted to learn about him… The noises he made when he was stuffed full of Alasdair’s cock, for a start.

“Ah, Alasdair, dear chap. You should have joined us on the links.”

Alasdair looked up from his brandy at Roger Montague’s hearty tones, confident his lustful imaginings wouldn’t be showing in his face or his groin. He rose to shake Roger’s hand and those of the three men he was with. Old school friends of Roger’s from Eton, it turned out, and all now working in finance and based abroad in Dubai and Zurich, so unlikely to be potential accounts for him. He made an effort to be polite and friendly, though, because it never hurt to have contacts.

“And where did you go to school?” the tall and skinny one asked him, his tone dripping with condescension.

Toffee-nosed bastard. “I was at the Royal Grammar School.” Okay, so it didn’t have the same cachet as Eton, but at least the selection process still operating in Buckinghamshire had allowed a working-class kid like him the means to a top-notch state education.

“Oh yes? And after that?”

Alasdair met tall-and-skinny’s challenging gaze with force. “I went into business. I’m a self-made man.”

“Alasdair’s one of those upstart go-getters,” Roger said. “Better keep an eye on your wives. If he sees something he wants, he gets it, and he’s a handsome devil.”

Alasdair took a swig of brandy, letting them interpret his silence however they saw fit.

“I can’t imagine Imogen parting her legs for anyone who didn’t have a knighthood,” the baby-faced one in the pink shirt said. “I swear, she only married me for my family name.”

“You should count yourself lucky,” the tanned Dubai businessman said. “I have to keep a close eye on my pool cleaners, I can tell you. I don’t much care how Lavinia fills her days, but I don’t want her passing on something nasty to me, thank you very much.” The skinny stockbroker brayed with laughter, and baby-face smirked.

Bunch of snobbish bastards. At least Roger was shaking his head rather than joining in. If he’d started putting Tori down, Alasdair would have had to say something. Roger’s wife might be as posh as they came, but she’d welcomed Alasdair into their house like an old friend, despite knowing his background. Well, the edited highlights, anyway. He’d left out the motorbike years and the whole sexual-orientation thing when talking to the Montagues.

As he listened to the chauvinist small talk with half an ear, the temptation to tell them all he preferred cock was almost overwhelming. Would Roger take it with his usual suaveness, only to cut Alasdair the next time they met? Or would he be genuinely shocked? Perhaps he wouldn’t care. Men of his class got up to all sorts at boarding school, if the rumours were to be believed.

Alasdair took his leave after finishing his drink but made an arrangement to meet up with Roger later in the week for a business breakfast. Wheeling and dealing over a plate of croissants and a pot of tea. What would the twenty-year-old him have made of it all?

He could just imagine the look of scorn that would have curled Jon’s lips. But no. Better to imagine Cosmo’s lips. Plump and kissable and made for sucking cock. And those scars on his chin that gave him such a defiant, tough-boy look despite the luscious mouth. It was a face he couldn’t forget. If having Cosmo stuck in his mind was the price he had to pay to keep the memories of Jon at bay, so be it.

And tomorrow, he’d get to find out for real just how that boy behaved when put through his paces. Alasdair smiled to himself as he unlocked his Mercedes. Cosmo was taking his first trip to subspace, and Alasdair was going to get him there. Could there be a more exciting prospect?

Chapter Three

It turns out that when you’re an impatient, lazy brat, waiting for thirty hours can feel like a lifetime—especially as Cosmo was worried he’d get a phone call from Irene telling him she was cutting his benefits. Still, he sat himself down, worked out that new tune on his electric guitar, and practised some old John Martyn songs on the acoustic. He found the sixties and seventies stuff went down well when busking, and if he did lose the Jobseeker’s Allowance, he’d end up doing a helluva lot more of that to make his rent.

But Friday evening finally arrived, and Cosmo was walking into the White Horse in his glad rags. Felt kind of weird, wearing his strategically ripped jeans without his tighty-whities underneath. On the stroll down, he’d been worrying he was flashing his bare arse to the world, but he guessed that was the idea. On his top half, he wore a skintight skull-and-crossbones T-shirt which he’d only ever worn out to London gay clubs before. You could see his nipple ring through the fabric, which made him a bit self-conscious, but not in a bad way. If there was a bad way to be conscious of your nipples, he hadn’t yet come across it. The only other jewellery he wore was a length of chunky chain wrapped around his right wrist, secured with a carabiner. It was cool against the rope-chafed skin, a constant reminder of his interview with Alasdair. He’d considered fashioning it into a collar, but after a bit of online research, he’d realised there were protocols about that sort of thing.

Wouldn’t do to unintentionally piss off the man who was about to dominate his arse.

He’d wanted to put his hoodie on over the whole slutty outfit, but it spoilt the look, and besides, the White Horse wasn’t the kind of pub where you’d risk leaving a jacket on the coat pegs for any length of time. Still, it was pretty mild for mid-March, and he managed to stave off the chill breeze by hugging his arms around himself as he walked down Desborough Avenue.

The White Horse was one of those pubs that still seemed to reek of cigarettes, despite the smoking ban. Could be it was still lingering in the old carpets and frayed furnishings, but Cosmo thought it was more likely because Freddie smoked in there all morning before he opened up, with regular lock-ins to top up the aroma. Freddie claimed that was how pubs should smell—like beer and tobacco—not of that mixture of piss and scented urinal cakes, which was what most of them seemed to stink of these days.

Cosmo wondered how much he was going to get the mickey ripped out of him by the locals for his outfit. You’d think they’d seen it all, seeing as how the Horse was an old biker bar, but he was never sure just how gay-tolerant most of them were. Whenever he’d wanted to pull one of the bicurious emo boys, he’d always made sure they were well clear of the place before things got heavy, anyway.

“Whoa, Cosmo. Who’re you trying to impress? No A&R men down here tonight that I know of.” Freddie grinned at him over the bar, and Cosmo tried to work out if that was a leer or just friendly derision. Nah, he couldn’t tell.

“Yeah, yeah, pint of the usual, mate. And I’m meeting someone, ain’t I? Old friend of yours, actually.”

“Oh yeah? Who’d that be?” Freddie poured him a Snake’s Nipple, which was like a Snakebite but comprised of mostly cider with only an inch of lager in the top, rather than the usual half and half.

“Alasdair Grant,” Cosmo said.

“No fucking way.” Freddie stared in amazement at him until the lager began overflowing. “Bugger.”

“Watch it. I don’t want the cider getting all diluted.”

When Freddie handed the dripping pint glass over, Cosmo went for his money, but Freddie stopped him. “No, mate, this one’s on the house. I reckon you’ll need it if you’re playing with Alasdair.” Freddie gave him this look, concern and respect all kind of intermingled in a way that gave Cosmo the butterflies far worse than walking up on stage ever did.

“What d’you mean? I can handle him,” he scoffed.

Freddie just shook his head, which made him feel like he was about twelve. “I hope so, for your sake.”

Damn. Cosmo wished he hadn’t mentioned anything. Now he was getting the fear. But Alasdair had said all that stuff about safety and responsibility, hadn’t he? All the same, he reckoned he needed a smoke to calm his nerves. He fished his baccy out of his jeans, found a dry spot on the bar and started rolling a fag.

“Keep an eye on my drink for me, mate,” he asked as he turned to head outside. The only beer garden the White Horse had was a few tables fenced off from the main road, so you got all the fun of watching the traffic go past while you smoked.

“Hey, Cosmo,” Freddie called.

He turned back.

“Don’t you go leaning back against a lamppost dressed like that. Don’t want anyone thinking I’m running a knocking shop.”

Cosmo headed outside to a chorus of laughter and filthy comments from the regulars, the bunch of bastards.

He ended up staying outside for longer than he’d intended, trying to gas his nerves with a cloud of tobacco smoke, but he just ended up getting more and more jittery. What if Alasdair wanted to hurt him? Cosmo reckoned he had a pretty high pain threshold, and he got off on having his nipple ring tweaked, but he’d never had anyone set out to seriously hurt him. The bloke wasn’t going to want to put him in a gimp suit like that poor freak in
Pulp Fiction
, was he? Or introduce him to the dubious pleasures of erotic asphyxiation? Crazy scenarios whirled through his head, and he did end up leaning back against the wall, no doubt looking more like a rent boy than Freddie would be happy with.

The roar of an approaching bike cut through his circling thoughts. Cosmo was no expert, but even he could tell this was something powerful. He saw it coming down the West Wycombe Road, the indicator flashing like it meant to turn in to Freddie’s car park. It was a huge black Harley, every bit of paintwork and chrome gleaming like it had been freshly polished. And the guy riding? He totally looked the part, all decked out in black leather and bristling with shiny studs.

The bike came to a standstill in front of him, the engine cut out, and the bloke lifted his helmet off. Bloody hell, it was only Alasdair.

Cosmo stared, frozen, watching him stash his helmet in the top box on the back of the bike and set about chaining the back wheel to a post. Alasdair looked up at him for a moment, his eyes flashing a warning. Cosmo’s stomach dropped as he remembered the commands he’d been given, and he flicked his half-smoked rollie onto the ground as he bolted back inside.

Cosmo ran to the bar, found his pint, and took a deep, deep draught. Then he leant forwards, his elbows on the bar, his arse sticking out, and fixed his eyes on the reflection of the main entrance in the mirror behind the bar. The door swung open, and Alasdair strode in, unhurried and confident, like he owned the place. Cosmo watched the regulars take notice of him. Normally there was a bit of teasing when a newbie walked into the pub, but this time, nothing. Just Freddie, calling out, “Hey, Chopper, long time, no see.”

Chopper?

“Bigfoot. I see you haven’t shaved off that god-awful face fungus yet. Surprised Cerys hasn’t made you.”

Cosmo winced along with some of the others around the bar, but Freddie just laughed. Cosmo had heard some of the older bikers call him Bigfoot before, but if anyone else tried it out, they got a warning the first time and kicked out of the pub the second.