If it flies, p.1
If It Flies, page 1
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
If It Flies (Market Garden #3)
Copyright © 2013, 2016, 2018 by Aleksandr Voinov & L.A. Witt
Cover Art: Tiferet Design (www.TiferetDesign.com)
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher, and where permitted by law. Reviewers may quote brief passages in a review. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact the author at [email protected]
Table of Contents
If It Flies (Market Garden #3)
Also by Aleksandr Voinov
About the Authors
If It Flies (Market Garden #3)
By Aleksandr Voinov & L. A. Witt
About If It Flies (Market Garden #3)
If it flies, drives, or fornicates, it’s cheaper to rent it.
Spencer is in a rut. Long hours at the law firm are sucking the life out of him, and he doesn’t have time or energy for a relationship. He’s lonely, horny, and itching for something new, so he tries the Market Garden, an exclusive – and expensive – brothel. Spencer isn’t in the door five minutes before a cocky rentboy makes his move.
Nick isn’t just any rentboy, though. He’s a Dom, he’s a sadist, and he’s everything Spencer didn’t know he was missing. One night turns into more, and before long, Spencer is one of Nick’s regular clients.
Both men think they’re just scratching each other’s backs: Spencer’s exploring a submissive, masochistic side he never knew he had, and Nick is getting off and getting paid. But as time goes on, it’s clear their strictly professional arrangement ... isn’t, and if Nick has one hard limit, it’s that he doesn’t get romantically entangled with his johns. The problem is, while Nick doesn’t want to be owned, Spencer’s no longer content with just renting.
This 35,000 word novella was previously published.
“Trust me, Spence,” Percy said during a mostly liquid lunch. “If it flies, drives, or fornicates, it’s always cheaper to rent it.” A few other restaurant patrons gave him disgusted looks.
Spencer laughed humourlessly over the rim of a Moscow Mule. “Yeah. A lot of good that philosophy did you.”
“Now, now.” Percy wagged a finger at him. “It wasn’t the rentboy who cost me half of everything I own. It was the wife.”
“Mm-hmm. Because you rented something that fornicates, yes?” Married or not, Percy never could resist his penchant for rentboys, especially that gorgeous Jamaican guy he hadn’t managed to keep a secret.
“Wasn’t his fault. But her?” Percy shook his head. “Christ. With what that woman cost me, I could’ve thrown orgies with a pile of supermodels for years, snorting Class A drugs off the most expensive tits in London.” He shrugged, probably unaware he’d once again turned the heads of a few people at nearby tables. “Though you’ve got to admit, she does know how to skin a guy.”
The perverse, masochistic respect on his face gave Spencer pause, and he stabbed a bite of chicken. “There’s a dubious skill set.”
“And one of the biggest risks of the whole marriage trap.” Percy raised his glass as if in a toast. “That’s why you don’t buy, Spence. When you rent, you get all the good stuff and don’t set yourself up for a government-sanctioned bank account massacre.”
“Quite honestly,” Spencer muttered, keeping his voice down unlike his lunch companion, “I think I’d rather just find someone I didn’t feel the need to run around on.”
Percy waved a hand. “Just a fantasy, lad. Save yourself the trouble. You don’t need a relationship, you just need to get your arse into bed with someone who fucks off before dawn.”
“Charming.” Spencer eyed his own drink. It was way too early to be drinking, he knew that, but when Percy was buying, you didn’t say no, or a rumour might go round the firm that you couldn’t hold your liquor. Only problem was, his mouth was a little dry right now – these conversations never took long to get more personal than he liked – but his head was already light. Drink to wet the mouth? Or abstain to keep the head clear? Or maybe pick someone else to ask for advice to get out of this overstressed, undersexed rut he was stuck in? Percy was the only man at the firm who knew Spencer was gay, though, and Spencer wasn’t keen to let that information get around.
Unbidden, he wondered what crazy stuff Percy got up to – or off on – with his various rentboys, and quickly decided he couldn’t have lunch with the guy again if he knew. Bad enough he knew about Percy’s fetish for dark skin, which made their “friendship” a little bit awkward. He’d long ago convinced himself that the man was not flirting, just loved riding his superiority complex with him, and left it at that.
“You need to loosen up.” Percy declared, and smacked the table with an open palm, rattling some cutlery and startling half the restaurant, Spencer included.
And on that note, drinking it was. Spencer picked up his glass and quickly sucked down two deep swallows of the Moscow Mule, a hellish concoction of ginger beer and vodka. Spencer’s eyes watered a little, and he coughed as he put the glass down again.
“Loosen up.” He held Percy’s gaze. “Which in this case means following your lead and finding a prostitute.”
“Why the hell not?” Percy asked like the idea made perfect sense. “You need to relax, mate. Every time I’ve seen you recently, you’re wound tighter than the time before, and you weren’t any better when you were still with that fuckwit boyfriend of yours.” He made a sharp, dismissive gesture, as if shooing away an apparition of Spencer’s ex. “Which further proves my point: Rent. Don’t buy. It’ll do you some good.” He winked, lowering his voice again to a conspiratorial whisper. “It’s worth the money, I promise.”
“It’s just not my thing. We’ve been over this.”
“Mm-hmm.” That damned eyebrow was like a fucking lie detector, and its current arch said bollocks. “It’s not your thing? And being on the fast track to ulcers and a heart attack is your thing? Come on.” He shrugged. “One night. One trip. It’ll do you some good. I promise.”
Spencer gnawed the inside of his lower lip. He was on that fast track, wasn’t he, what with the last few months of stress – mergers and job cuts and bollocks, oh my!
Even though he knew it was a bad idea – but then, there was more Moscow Mule in his gut than in his glass – he finished the last of his drink and flagged down the waitress for another. He’d be taking the afternoon off now, that was for sure. Or at least barricading himself in his office under the pretence of studying contracts.
Before the second drink came, he tapped his fingers on the rim of the empty one. “So, this place you go to ...”
Immediately, the judgmental eyebrow returned to its launch position, and Percy’s eyes lit up. “That’s my boy!” He folded his arms and leaned in closer like they were planning a murder or some bloody thing. “What about it?”
Spencer swallowed. Where’s that drink? “I’ve heard things about those places. Human trafficking and –”
Drink? Please? Now?
“That’s not saying much, you know.”
Percy laughed. “Look, it’s not a bunch of underage kids working against their will. Most of them are jaded university students.”
Spencer blinked. “What?” Last thing he wanted was to walk into one of them as an intern in a year or so.
“Yeah. Crazy, isn’t it?” Percy picked up his own cocktail and took a drink, making Spencer’s mouth water. “Apparently, some of them start stripping between studying, and go on from there.”
Spencer couldn’t argue with that; it only made economic sense, sordid as it was.
“It’s ironic, you know?” Percy mused. “If the economy were better, we’d probably be working with these guys instead of fucking them.”
Spencer bit back the observation that he, as yet, hadn’t encountered a Jamaican lawyer – but who was he to judge? The banks were getting more “colourful,” even though the odd Indian or Pakistani were still assumed to be quantitative analysts rather than movers and shakers, and he himself still raised a few eyebrows as the one black corporate lawyer in the firm. Never mind he had the Oxbridge accent to prove that he belonged.
“Top talent always gets a place,” he muttered, trying to move the conversation elsewhere.
“I imagine it’s easier than working eighty-hour weeks to get onto the career ladder.” Percy was clearly enjoying himself way too much.
Thank God, Spencer’s drink arrived.
He sipped the ginger-flavoured cocktail while Percy talked about whoring being the one true equal-opportunity sector out there, though, in Percy’s typical way, even this romantic notion was distorted by a jaded lens. He cleared his throat. “Okay.”
“I’ll introduce you,” Percy said.
“Can’t I just go alone?”
“Na-ah.” Percy grinned at him. “I’d suggest getting a membership. It is quite classy – certainly a good variety, if you know what I mean. They even have a pair of shemales.”
Good God, this was not something he needed to learn during lunch.
“I’ll . . . have the usual configuration.”
“What about after work today?” That gleam in Percy’s eyes was equal parts unnerving and intriguing. “I’ll introduce you, you get a membership, and after that you’re on your own, stud.”
This was getting too familiar way too fast. Kicked along by the Mule, no doubt. Their relationship was friendly enough, but Spencer still felt a bit weird. As ex-head of sales in an investment bank, Percy likely knew every high-class prostitute in the City, and had very likely covered the partying under “expenses” when he “entertained clients,” so his experience on that front could clearly be trusted. Spencer had just never expected to find himself at the receiving end of Percy’s magnanimity.
“So.” Percy set his drink down sharply, emphatically, like he’d just closed a deal. “What do you say we meet at the Market Garden tonight? Say, nine-thirty?”
Uh, no, mate. No way. I’m not ... there’s no ...
But the Mule spoke before Spencer could: “I’ll be there.”
There was only one problem with a liquid lunch. Well, okay, besides the fact that it meant Spencer’s mouth had moved before his brain did and he’d wound up walking into a place like Market Garden at nine-thirty, hanging back behind Percy like that somehow made him safer. Yeah, right. Percy was enough of a troublemaker for both of them. Nobody was safe with that guy.
No, the problem was that after three drinks at lunch, Spencer was already a little hungover when he followed Percy into the club. His temples throbbed, a clear reminder why drinking with Percy during the day was a bad idea. But what was done was done, and now they were here.
God, Market Garden really didn’t go to any great lengths to mask its purpose, did it? Signs warning against cameras. Disco lights flickering off the polished bald heads of the massive – and numerous – bouncers standing around to make sure no one got too frisky with the merchandise. Not without paying for it, anyway.
Obviously Percy wasn’t the only man who “entertained clients” here. There was no shortage of patrons in suits pawing at scantily clad women.
“Thought you said this place catered to guys like us,” he said to Percy.
The man glanced at him, eyes narrow and sly. “They do. But when you want top shelf, you have to ask for it.”
Spencer just followed Percy deeper into the club. They stopped at the bar, which was staffed by half a dozen men, any one of which Spencer would have emptied his wallet to –
He shook his head. Apparently he was getting used to this idea faster than he’d thought.
Percy leaned over the bar and exchanged a few brief, hushed words with one of the bartenders. Then came the nod, the head tilt, and when Spencer followed the trajectory of the tilt, he saw a door tucked into the shadows at one end of the bar. It had windows, but they’d been blacked out, and a couple of the bouncers loitered nearby.
“Let’s go.” Percy beckoned to Spencer and strolled towards that blacked-out door like he owned the place.
Now his heart quickened, and he wondered if he should grab Percy, ask him to wait, and order himself a glass of liquid courage before he started traipsing into guarded, darkened back rooms in a bar full of prostitutes.
I should’ve just gone to the gym tonight.
One of the bouncers saw them coming and stepped in front of the door. A swell of panic almost stopped Spencer in his tracks, but instead of warning them away, the bouncer pulled open the door and gave them a “go on” gesture.
Even if the windows hadn’t been blacked out, there wouldn’t have been much light coming from the room on the other side. It looked like a huge, dark void, forbidding but attractive, pulling him in like the black hole it resembled.
The door shut heavily behind them. Percy pushed aside a thick curtain. And beyond the portal: the men of Market Garden. They all wore black leather in various configurations, though most went for leather trousers with either a skin-tight black T-shirt or a bondage harness. And no two guys were alike. Twinks. Bodybuilders. Androgynous boys. Guys who looked like they’d escaped a Goth convention with free mascara.
One guy in particular immediately caught his eyes. Slim, wearing low-riding leather trousers that revealed chiselled groin lines, and Spencer couldn’t decide what he wanted to touch more – the bulge in the guy’s trousers or the two pierced nipples that he displayed proudly without a T-shirt or so much as a harness.
“You look like you’re in a supermarket in front of fifty types of orange juice,” Percy whispered to him. “Definitely a membership for you. You can try them all.”
Spencer pulled at his tie. It was getting hot in here. “Not sure how I –” he managed to bite the rest of the sentence off before it escaped. How I feel about fucking a guy you fucked. But it didn’t really matter, did it? Would he rent a car that Percy had rented before him?
The guy in leather was just turning away with a laugh from a friend wearing a chainmail shirt.
“Drink?” Percy asked.
Best way to shed Percy, however briefly. The man’s peanut gallery comments were a serious distraction, never mind the potential for embarrassment. “Sure.”
Percy vanished in the gloom towards the bar, and Spencer watched the guy in leather for a minute or so. He must have been in his early twenties. Not quite a twink, but that lean build suggested a dancer or something. The guy couldn’t weigh more than sixty, sixty-five kilos. No, he hadn’t looked at profiles on Grindr too long. You could just tell the guy didn’t have a spare kilo on his frame. Maybe he was a go-go dancer rather than a rentboy?
The guy looked at him, and a smile curled the corner of his mouth.
And then he came walking over.
And looking Spencer up and down like he was sizing up a rental instead of being the merchandise on display.
A little too close – oh God, come closer – he stopped. Spencer was almost a head taller, but couldn’t shake the feeling that the leather-clad almost-twink was looking down at him. He wasn’t intimidating, per se, he just radiated a cockiness that tightened Spencer’s balls.
Spencer cleared his throat. “Um ... hello.” Good thing nobody expected a client to come up with a pickup line. Though that one had been exceptionally lame.
“You got a name?” Direct. No surprise there.
He considered a fake name, but what the hell? Another quiet cough, and he said, “Spencer.”
“Nick.” With a faint smirk, Nick nodded towards the bar on the opposite end of the shadowy room. “You look like the kind of guy who could buy me a drink.”
Spencer’s breath tangled up somewhere in his airway. “I ... excuse me?”
An eyebrow lifted. Not judgmental and telepathic like Percy’s always was. Purely challenging. A thin curve of “You heard me.”
“Look, I’m ...” I’m sounding like an idiot already. Guess this isn’t much different from the dating scene. “I’ll be honest here. I’m new to this.”
“I know. I’ve never seen you here before, and you look lost.” Nick quirked his eyebrow again. “Your dad didn’t bring you here to lose your virginity, did he?”
At that, Spencer laughed. Well, that was something: he was breathing now. “No. Not quite. But I’ve, um, never done ... this.”
“What? Had an awkward conversation with a prostitute in a whorehouse?” No smile cracked his lips, but Spencer could tell Nick was enjoying this. Immensely.
“Something like that,” Spencer muttered. “So, how does this work, exactly?”
“Well.” Nick tossed his head to get that blond fringe out of his eyes. “You buy me a drink, it’s a fiver. You want to lick it off me? It’s a hundred.”
by Aleksandr Voinov / Gay & Lesbian / Historical Fiction / Romance have rating 4 out of 5 / Based on32 votes