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Three months later.
“Stupid buggering bastard!” Dare hit the offending wheel nut with his wrench, but it still refused to budge. The problem with working outdoors in January—even on a clear, sunny day—wasn’t just the way it made your fingers clumsy. It was the way even metal refused to cooperate. Sticking together with the cold.
Dare contemplated moving the van into the workshop to warm it up a bit before having another try at the last wheel nut, but that would require moving out one of the camper vans he was working on, and since neither vehicle had a full complement of wheels right now—the very reason he was trying to remove this one—that was a load of hassle he could do without. Screw the sodding wheels. He could sort those out another day. There was interior stuff he could be working on. Both vans had seen better days, but they were highly sought after first generation, Splitscreen VW campers, so after Dare had fixed them up, they’d be sure to fetch a pretty penny—upwards of £30k each—and he had a potential buyer lined up for one of them already. There was still plenty of time to finish them both. The used camper van trade didn’t really pick up till the weather improved and the city folks began to pine for the great outdoors.
Dare picked up his power wrench and headed back through the maze of trashed vehicles to his workshop. These days he only took in campers—often vintage VWs he imported from California—but there were still plenty of old cars left from when his dad ran the place. His route took him past the front gates, and he picked up the post from his box there. Just a pile of anonymous white and brown envelopes with those plastic windows. Invoices and official bollocks. That must have been what he’d heard Solly barking about earlier. Poor postie. He wasn’t to know the Rottweiler was more bark than bite. The whole point of a good guard dog was to intimidate people into not even trying to cross the threshold. Not until Dare had got her to stand down, anyway.
As he headed down the central track towards his workshop, Dare whistled. Moments later, Solly came trotting round from the back of Matilda. She bounded up to him and bounced around, sticking her cold wet nose into his pockets. “Get out of there, you greedy girl. I haven’t got anything for you.” Dare scratched behind her ears instead and made a mental note to head down the Chinese later. They usually saved him a bag of bones and scraps when he asked them to, and Solly definitely deserved something nice after a few days of dry biscuits.
Dare’s stomach rumbled. Come to think of it, he deserved something nice too. He checked his watch. Yeah, it was time for elevenses. Instead of heading into the workshop, he strode over to Matilda instead.
Matilda the Airstream was his pride and joy. And she was also his home. Not that the council knew that. As far as anyone else was concerned, the caravan was just a break room and office. That excused having a fully stocked kitchen here, as well as a laptop sitting on the dining table. And his bedroom? Well, sometimes a busy small business owner needed a nap after lunch, didn’t he?
Dare threw the letters onto the table. Coffee first. He loaded up his machine—it hadn’t been hard to rig a pod machine into the twelve-volt system—and dug around in the cupboards for something to eat. Eventually he found a bag of cinnamon and raisin bread that was only a little bit mouldy around the edges, so he cut the manky crusts off and toasted it under the grill. He topped up Solly’s water and biscuits, using up the last of the packet. Solly wagged her tail enthusiastically as she started gobbling them down. “Whoa, slow down, sweetheart. That’s got to last you till I get down the shops.” Solly just whined and continued stuffing her face.
Toast and coffee in hand, Dare sat down on the dinette seat and riffled through his letters. “Boring, boring, boring—what’s this?” On closer inspection, one of the envelopes was much better quality than the others. And instead of the standard clear plastic window, his name had been printed onto a label stuck on the front. Dare tore it open, accidentally ripping some of the equally high-quality paper inside. “Oops. Okay, Solly. Let’s see what they have to say for themselves. Dear Mr. Nelson, blah, blah, blah, blah. £500,000!” Dare rubbed his eyes and started paying closer attention. Okay, so it wasn’t a bill. That was a relief. No, it turned out from some property development company—Montague-Worthington, they were called. Never heard of the buggers.
It appeared the buggers wanted to pay him half a million quid for his yard, though, so they could build more overpriced flats for young professionals.
For a moment, Dare entertained the idea of being a demi-millionaire. He could go travelling for a few years. See the world. But it wasn’t that simple, was it? He’d need a dog-sitter, and somewhere to come back to eventually, and there was no way he was moving back into his “official” home address with Jase. He’d end up committing fratricide before a week was out.
And besides, he loved his yard and his work. He’d never be able to afford another yard with a location as good as this one. The harbour was just outside the front gates, and he only had to walk a few minutes along the docks to be treated to the most incredible view of the Avon Gorge, spanned by the Clifton Suspension Bridge. It was a view he never grew tired of. No, he was sitting on a piece of prime real estate here, and they knew it. He probably wouldn’t be able to afford one of the flats they’d build on this land, even with a half a million in his pockets.
In fact, when you looked at it that way, the whole offer was a bleedin’ insult. Dare screwed up the letter and tossed it into the bin. “No bastard’s gonna force us off our land, are they, sweetheart?” he said to Solly as she sauntered over. She rested her head on his knee and whined. “What, you’ve finished your grub already? I don’t know, you’re going to eat me out of house and home, you are.”
Dare gave her half a slice of his toast and then got his kit together for a supermarket run.
The nearest place to buy food was a deli in Hotwells, but since Dare wasn’t made of money, he carried on down the main road until he hit the cheaper shops on Anchor Road. His route took him straight past the block of swanky flats where he’d dropped off that drunk suit last spring. What was his name... Gary? No, Grant, that was it. He’d never seen the bloke again, but that was hardly surprising. Despite living nearby, Dare’s life was worlds apart from that of overpaid businessmen. And thank fuck for that, really. He wondered what Grant did for fun, other than getting wasted and starting fights at parties. Probably playing golf and hanging out with other rich bastards. Yeah, that wasn’t Dare’s scene. He was more at home with a bunch of other outcasts and weirdos. Maybe he’d head up to Stokes Croft and say hello to two of his favourite weirdos, who ran a cute little vintage clothes shop there.
Or then again, maybe not. Dare reviewed how much money he had in his pockets with a sigh. Yeah, just window shopping for him once he’d got the food shopping done.
Winter was a total bitch sometimes.
Grant pulled up outside the rusty gates and peered through at the next site for one of Montague-Worthington’s developments. It was about time too. The place was an eyesore. To think of all this prime riverfront real estate going to waste on a bunch of old scrap vehicles was enough to make anyone weep. Especially someone who could see the place out of his spare bedroom window. He fingered the envelope tucked into his inside jacket pocket—a duplicate of the offer sent out to this Derek Nelson almost a fortnight ago. Hopefully the last one had just gone astray and this Mr. Nelson wasn’t the stubborn bastard Grant suspected him to be.
“I want this one delivered in person,” Cecil had told him, handing over the sealed envelope. “And you can use all your powers of persuasion to get him to see what a good deal this will be for him.”
Powers of persuasion. Right. Grant flipped down his mirror and straightened his tie. Here’s hoping Mr. Nelson would be suitably intimidated and impressed by him.
Grant left the car parked outside while he went to open the gates. Why the man had to keep them shut was beyond him. How inconvenient for visitors. He was probably one of those antisocial old men, though. Didn’t trust the modern world and anyone in it.
Grant had just found the padlocked chain when he noticed the buzzer and the Beware of the Dog sign. Ah. He dropped the chain just as a large blur of dark brown rounded the corner and leapt up at the gate. “Bloody hell!” Grant stepped back from the snapping jaws. He was safe this side of the fence, he told himself. He eyed the rusty metal nervously and reached for the buzzer. Sweat was soaking his shirt under his jacket. Suddenly this assignment didn’t seem like such a great deal for him. They should have sent out one of the minions first. Got an idea of the lay of the land.
“Solly! Down, girl,” came a call from the other side of the fence. To his relief, the dog sat back on her hindquarters and whined. Like that, she was kind of cute. Grant’s uncle had had Rottweilers, and he’d always been fond of them. Definitely paid to be wary when you didn’t know them, though. Eventually the owner of the voice came into view, and Grant frowned. There was something familiar about the large man, but he couldn’t place him. He certainly wasn’t the overweight old codger Grant had been expecting, though. This bloke was probably not much older than Grant, and he was the tall-and-muscular brand of large rather than the unfit-and-blubbery sort. He was dressed like some kind of homeless thug, though. A biker jacket that had definitely seen better days, tatty combats, fingerless gloves and a navy beanie hat. The shaved scalp showing underneath just added to the general air of disreputableness.
“Good morning,” Grant began. “Mr. Derek Nelson, I presume?”
Tall-and-Thuggish squinted at him. “That’s right. You again? What are you doin’ here?” The man spoke with a thick Bristolian accent, which wasn’t helping dispel the thuggish image. From him the over-pronounced Rs and Ls came across more piratical than country bumpkin, although at least that meant he didn’t sound too much like that West-country hobbit in Lord of the Rings.
“I’m sorry, I don’t think we’ve had the pleasure. I’m Grant Matravers, from Montague-Worthington.” Grant would have held out his hand, but what with the gate between them, he couldn’t see a handshake working.
“Bleedin’ hell. So you don’t remember anything about that night?”
“Night? What night?” Grant ransacked his memory. There had been some lost evenings over the past few months after transferring to the Bristol office and moving into his Hotwells flat full-time. Evenings when he’d downed scotch before heading out to a club, and when he’d woken the next morning to find used condoms on his bed and stains all over the sheets, and vague memories of kicking out some youngster the previous night once they’d done the dirty. But surely he’d never have attempted to pick up a man like this? He certainly wasn’t Grant’s usual type. “I’m sorry, you’ll have to refresh my memory.”
Derek Nelson crossed his arms and raised one eyebrow. “Last spring. You were causing a scene at me mate’s party, so I had to escort you home. I’m not surprised you don’t remember much. You were bleedin’ rat-arsed.”
Oh God. The party. Sickening dread filled Grant’s stomach. Mas’s party. There had been a large man with a shiny head who’d driven him home, he remembered that much. And there had been coffee. And...a rejection. Yes, he’d wanted some physical comfort—a meaningless fuck to cheer himself up—but he’d been turned down. On what had to be one of the top five worst nights of his life, ranking up there with the one after he’d broken up with Harriet. Talk about kicking a man when he was down.
“Yeah, you’re remembering it now, aren’t you?” Nelson was unlocking the gate as he spoke, and the next thing Grant was aware of was a wet dog nose pressing into his palm. Absentmindedly he petted the brute of Rottweiler, all the while ransacking his hazy memories for any details that might put him at an advantage here. But it appeared his potential client had them all. Grant only knew his name and what he did for a living.
“Come on in, then,” Mr. Nelson said. “You might as well come and say your bit while you’re here. I’ve been wondering if I’d ever run into you again, you know? I mean, we’re practically neighbours. I can see your building if I get up on top of one of the vans. You still living there? Or in Surrey?”
“Surrey? How do you know about Harriet?”
“Oh yeah. Your missus, is she? I remember now. You’re married.”
God. Had he really spilled the beans about his marriage? “She’s not my missus anymore,” he said stiffly, wanting to distance himself from that married man who’d let himself be utterly seduced by a cute young twink. “We’re getting divorced. And I’m living in Bristol now.”
“Good for you. That working out for you, is it?”
None of your business, Grant seethed, but he made a noncommittal “Hmmm” in reply.
Grant let himself be led into the yard. “Wait. My car! I can’t leave it there. Those are double yellows.”
Nelson just made a dismissive noise. “No one ever bothers checking down here, but I can always stick a sign on your car. Hang on.” He pulled a crumpled-up wad of paper from his pocket and scrawled something on it with a Biro from behind his ear. The man’s fingers were thick, Grant noticed. Big and strong looking, just like the rest of him. And stained with grease or dirt, all the whorls of his fingertips outlined in black.
“Here you go. Stick that on your dash.” Grant took the note and turned automatically. He was putting the note on his dashboard when it struck him. He was following orders. He’d somehow let his potential client get the upper hand. He’d been blindsided. That’s what it was. This obnoxious thug had stirred up a whole heap of painful memories he’d been doing his best to avoid. Why on earth had Grant ever even considered sleeping with him? He must have been really drunk. The man’s clothes were positively ragged and covered in dirt. Okay, so there was something appealing about the way his clothes hugged his tight glutes and the breadth of his shoulders, but Grant preferred slim, youthful bodies. This bloke looked like he’d be covered in tattoos and scars.
The idea of running his hands over rough, marked skin made his fingers tingle. What would that feel like? What would it feel like to be with a man who was taller and stronger than him? It wasn’t something he’d ever seriously considered. He swallowed hard, his heart beginning to pound.
“Like what you see?” Nelson smirked and cupped his groin, and to his horror Grant realised he’d been checking the man out. Oh God, he’d better not be blushing. He didn’t blush.
Grant fought down the urge to make a cutting remark. This wasn’t a social call. He just had to keep things professional, get Nelson to agree to the terms, and then persuade Cecil to assign someone else to deal with the nitty-gritty of the sale.
“I like what I see of your land.” There, that was better. Turn the conversation back to business.
“Funny. Most people round here seem to think it’s an eyesore. They’d rather have another block of bland luxury flats for poncy cunts with more money than sense.”
The man was an obnoxious punk, but Grant wasn’t about to rise to the bait. He wasn’t. “Some of us rather like those luxury flats, and this would be a perfect spot for a prestigious development.” Grant turned around, looking above the rusty hulks of decaying vans to the skyline. The view of the gorge from here was incredible, and then there were the docks just over the road. “People would pay a lot of money for a view like yours.”
“Yeah, I know. Which is why your offer is a fucking insult.”
Ah, so now they were opening negotiations. Grant smiled to himself. Money was something he was good at, and everyone had their price. It just turned out Cecil had underestimated Derek Nelson’s. “If the money is a problem, then we can certainly look at the offer. Did you have a particular sum in mind?”
“No, I didn’t. Bleedin’ hell, this is my livelihood, you know? And besides, I’ve got memories here. Used to come and help my dad out. Learnt the ropes from him. You can’t put a price on that kind of shit.” Nelson turned and began walking deeper into the scrap yard, so Grant took it as an invitation to follow.
“Oh, I agree.” Grant found his stride. This was the sort of thing he’d always been good at. “Memories are priceless. But selling the land doesn’t mean you lose the memories. Those are yours to keep, whatever happens. We’re just talking about making you more comfortable in the meantime. Maybe you’d be able to buy a bigger house. Or move out to a more rural location. We just want to make your dreams come true.” It was the same line he used to give to the purchasers of their flats before he got promoted up to acquisitions, but then again, it had been relatively simple to work out the dreams and aspirations of ambitious young professionals. This Derek Nelson was a whole different breed.
Nelson came to a halt outside a strange-looking, silver, bullet-shaped caravan. “Dreams? You want to know what I dream of? Bending shallow, arrogant suits like you over and fucking you so hard you can’t remember what your sales pitch was. Fancy making that dream come true for me, do you?” He stepped in closer and jerked his head towards the metal caravan. “I’ve got a bed in there. Or we could use the table if you’d get more of a kick out of it.”
Grant was having a hard time breathing. “I’m not shallow.” He had to get that clear. “Or arrogant.”
“Really.” Nelson raised an eyebrow. Now that was arrogance in action.
“I’m not! I’m confident and ambitious.”
His tormentor gave a sharklike grin. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“What question?”
“Wanna fuck?”