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After a meeting with the rest of the team working on the Hooper’s Barton Project, Grant dashed back to the haven of his office and downed a couple of painkillers, washed down with coffee. Christ, working with a thumping hangover was never fun, and especially not when you were having to deal with contractors running over time and over budget.
And especially not when your concentration was shot to pieces by the memories that kept surfacing of the night before. Grant pulled the mirror out of his desk drawer, checking his jaw for signs of stubble burn. There hadn’t been any that morning, mercy of mercies, but he kept worrying it would show up. After all, his face felt like it had been rubbed raw. More than that, his whole body felt raw and tender. Sex with another top was definitely a whole different thing to sex with sweet young bottom boys like Mas. For a start, Dare had been strong enough to overpower him and pin him down. Shouldn’t have been a turn-on, really, but for some bizarre reason, it was.
And if Grant felt this deliciously raw after just a blowjob and a frot, how much more so was he going to feel if he let Dare fuck him?
Not that he was going to, because Dare had made it clear under what circumstances that would happen, and anal certainly wouldn’t be the kind of thing Grant would beg for, but still, he couldn’t help wondering. Would it turn him on to feel tender down there?
Would it turn him on to let go and hand over the power to someone else for a change?
A knock sounded on the door. Grant dropped the mirror back in the drawer and shoved it closed. “Come in.” It was Lisa—the woman who was officially Cecil’s secretary, but who in practice handled admin for Grant and a couple of other senior team members too.
“Cecil wants to see you in his office,” she said. “And I’ll warn you, he’s in one of those moods today.”
“Great.” Grant stood, ready to leave. Cecil didn’t like to be kept waiting when he was in one of those moods.
“Oh, and one last thing.” Lisa lifted her hand filled with envelopes, then lowered it and bit her lower lip. “No, it can wait until after you’ve seen Cecil.”
“Oh no, don’t keep me wondering like that. Something’s arrived for me?”
“Yes... But I don’t think you’re going to like it.”
“Come on, Lisa. I’ll only be more stressed if I’m wondering about this too.”
She handed over a large, well-stuffed white envelope, her eyes downcast. “It says it’s from the Guildford Family Court. I’m really sorry, Grant.”
Grant stared at the envelope, wondering what on earth she was seeing that he wasn’t. Legal documents through the post were a standard part of his job—sometimes it seemed like he spent half his working hours discussing arcane property regulations with lawyers.
Then the word “family” popped out at him.
He tore open the envelope and scanned the first page. It let him know that Harriet had filed for divorce. He skimmed over the rest, unable to take it all in, but words leapt out at him, like custody arrangements and maintenance. He dropped the papers on his desk and screwed his eyes shut, but he couldn’t exactly unsee it. Yes, he’d been waiting for this as the start of a new chapter, but that didn’t stop the sorrow from welling up inside him.
It was official. He’d totally fucked up his life. And not just his. Harriet’s and the kids’ too.
“I know this is a terribly hard time for you, Mr. Matravers.” Lisa laid her hand on his arm. “I went through it all myself a couple of years ago. If you ever want someone to talk things through with, you can always call me. Maybe we could meet up for a drink one evening.” All of a sudden, the scent of Lisa’s perfume caught his nostrils. It was stronger than usual, like she’d just refreshed it. And then he noticed the way her hand was caressing his arm.
Grant took hold of her hand gently and gave it a brief squeeze. “Thanks, I appreciate it.” It was difficult to know how to put her off without coming out, and he wasn’t ready for taking that step just yet. “Maybe I will sometime. But first I’d better see that boss of ours.”
Grant scurried down the hallway, aware he was being a coward, but more than a little unsettled by Lisa’s advances. Of course, he’d had to rebuff women in the past, but flashing his wedding ring and talking affectionately about Harriet had dealt with all but the most persistent flirts. Those he’d generally resorted to telling he preferred men, but he’d never had to deal with them in the workplace before. Not that he meant to compare Lisa with those drunk, predatory women he’d encountered in bars, but without his cover story of a happy, faithful marriage to fall back on, he was out of acceptable excuses.
It was starting to sink in just how much he’d lost when he ended things with Harriet. It wasn’t just the home comforts and pleasures of having his family around him. All the old predictable securities were gone, with nothing to take their place. The life of a single gay man was a strange new world for him, and he wasn’t yet sure how to negotiate it. One thing was certain, though: sleeping with disreputable, toppy clients probably wasn’t the best way to go about things.
It was almost a relief to be called into Cecil’s office. If nothing else, it would take his mind off his predicament.
“About time,” Cecil barked. “I’m having a devil of a time with the Lansdown Project, so I need some good news. Give me a report on your progress with that waterfront scrap yard. Come on, snap, snap.”
Great. The one other thing Grant didn’t particularly want to think about. “Okay, I’ve been doing a little investigation myself after hours, but so far, I can’t see any sign of illegal activity. He stays there late every evening—very late—but as far as I can tell, he’s just working out.”
“Working out? In a scrap yard? Why doesn’t he just join a gym like any normal person would?”
“I wouldn’t say Mr. Nelson is particularly normal. He’s unconventional and likes to do things his own way. And besides, he’s got a gym set up in his workshop.” So Dare had said, anyway. Grant should probably try to get a look in there next time he visited to verify the story. Perhaps he could claim to have a fetish for dirty, mechanic’s workshop sex.
And judging by the way that thought made his dick stir, perhaps he really did.
“Hmmm. Could be just a cover story. Have you actually seen him working out in this gym?”
Oh God, there was another thought to make Grant’s blood race south. “No, but I’ve heard him doing bench presses. He’s got amazing stamina. He can keep going for ages.”
“I always preferred swimming and golf myself. Still, takes all sorts. I suppose he’s one of those muscle-headed thugs, is he?”
“He’s definitely muscular.” Grant really hoped Cecil couldn’t hear the desire creeping into his voice. “And you might well describe him as a thug.”
“Probably not any point using any of my contacts to persuade him off there, then. No, best not. He might already be connected, by the sounds of it. I certainly don’t want to risk stepping on anyone’s toes.”
“Connected?” Grant’s hungover brain wasn’t keeping up too well with Cecil’s train of thought, but that sounded ominous. “Do you mean what I think you mean? Organised crime?”
Cecil made a brushing-off gesture with his hands. “Oh please, there’s no need to be so dramatic. I just happen to know a few people who are well connected, and who will happily do me a favour if I hand them some cash in a brown envelope. But they won’t touch anyone who’s got their own connections. Not unless that person steps on their toes and makes it personal.”
Grant’s head whirled. It might be the hangover confusing him, but he was fairly sure Cecil had just admitted to using criminal connections to intimidate people. And the kinds of ways those kind of criminals “intimidated” people was the stuff of nightmares. He’d seen enough mob films to know that.
But instead of objecting, he stupidly said, “I didn’t know we had much organised crime in Bristol.”
“Oh wake up, Grant. Every city in the world has its underworld. Who do you think controls all the drugs and prostitution? It certainly isn’t the lawmakers.”
“I don’t think I really ever considered it.” He hadn’t seen much of that side of the city. The people he knew through work might occasionally snort a line of coke, but they bought it from other reasonably respectable people. How the dealers got hold of the stuff in the first place had never really been something that he’d stopped to think about.
“Yes, well, if you want to get ahead in this game, it pays to know the right people. I’ll introduce you to some of them sometime. But you’ll have to wise up a bit first.”
Grant didn’t particularly want to socialise with the kind of people who had others killed in the name of business, but he kept his mouth shut and tried to look professional. “Of course. I’ll educate myself.”
“You do that. Now, as I don’t think that’s the right line of pursuit for that scrap yard, let’s try something else first. How late did you say he stays in the evenings?”
Grant hadn’t, but judging from last night, it was late. “I’m not sure. I haven’t yet seen him leave.”
“Well, why ever not?”
“I need my sleep. Okay, last night, he was still there at eleven.”
“In his workshop?”
“In his caravan, I think.” Grant added the last two words hastily. It wouldn’t do to give away that he’d been there.
“Interesting. As far as I can see, there’s no residential use permit for the land yet, so if he’s sleeping there overnight, that’s definitely something we can use. Look into it, would you? He’s got a home address over in Totterdown, I believe, but perhaps that’s just a front.”
“Right, of course. I’ll check it out.”
“You do that.” Cecil looked visibly brighter now, and he rubbed his hands together. “I’ve got a good feeling about this, Grant. I predict you’ll have him selling to us before the month is out. Now run along and get investigating.”
“I still have the Hooper’s Barton Project to work on. Those contractors won’t sort their mess out by themselves.”
“Right you are. Just make sure you have some more good news for me by the end of the week.”
Cecil slapped him on the back, and it was all Grant could do not to growl at him. God knew why, but for some reason, the idea of poking his nose into Dare’s private life didn’t appeal. Who knew what he’d find there? Maybe the man wasn’t as principled and upstanding as he liked to make out.
And for some reason that thought made Grant want to throw things at the wall.