Take My Breath Away by Ali Ryecart
Chapter One
JAMES
The music’s turned up another notch, and the rhythm’s got harder. Already dim, the lights dip lower. The bar’s packed and it’ll only get worse.
It’s Friday night in Soho, and anything is possible.
Leaning back on my bar seat, I look out over the small dance floor, packed with bodies grinding to the beat beneath the pulsing strobe lights. It’s a familiar scene, and I could be in any gay bar in London, Manchester, Brighton, New York, San Francisco… I’ve been to enough in all these places, and beyond.
Blue’s one of my regular haunts, and I recognise a lot of the men in the bar.
Many are about the same age as I am and we look like what we are: middle-aged and affluent, with plenty of spare cash to flash on anybody who takes our fancy, and that attracts a lot of younger guys, hoping some of that cash will be spent on them. I don’t mind buying a few very pricey drinks if it’s going to whet the appetite. There are plenty of good looking guys around and I can have my pick of any of them. Several have looked my way, their gazes lingering, but that’s as far as it’s got and is likely going to get. Because tonight, just as on so many other nights over the last few months, I’m just not feeling it. So, I let my gaze move on, not holding eye contact, not giving out that silent signal, that silent beckon.
I’m about to throw back the rest of my drink, ready to call it a night, when a hand slides up my thigh. I must be losing my touch, as I’ve not noticed the young guy pitch up next to me.
I don’t mind his hand on my leg too much; it’s subtle, as far as places like this go. He’s smiling, in that pouty, practiced kind of way, and even under the low lights I can see the carefully applied gloss and the sultry look in his eyes. He’s cute and blond, although I don’t think it’s a blond that’s ever been classified in the natural world. I should be interested, but here and now, this whole charade’s about as appealing as week-old fish.
“I’ve been watching you. You’re very aloof. I find that attractive in a man.”
He edges in closer and looks up at me through his lashes. His hand on my thigh’s getting hot, and becoming somewhat uncomfortable, rather than the turn on it’s supposed to be. I smother a sigh. His come-on, whilst not crude, needs some practice and a little refinement. I do my best not to laugh. Refinement? Since when has a come-on ever meant to be refined?
“I’m just here having a drink.”
He answers with a simpering giggle.
“Nobody comes to Blue just to have a drink.”
He’s right, of course, no man comes to Blue just to have a drink. They come for other things. They come for men like him. Men like me come from men like him. Yet tonight, I don’t want him or any of the cute young things milling around. I’ve no appetite for it, whereas months or even weeks ago, I’d have gorged. It’s time to give him a polite brush off, and go, and I’m about to remove his hand from my thigh when he leans in even closer, and whispers in my ear.
“Maybe Daddy’s been waiting for the right boy to come along.”
His voice is breathy, and his hand creeps up another couple of inches. If he gets any closer he’ll be sitting in my lap with his hand on my dick. I wrap a palm around his wrist, bringing a halt to his progress.
Daddy… Really?
It seems like the greyer my hair becomes, the more I get this. I mentioned it to my friend Elliot, but he just looked at me with horror in his eyes and said that maybe I should consider dyeing it. My response, let’s say, was colourful.
Easing his hand away, I shift my position. It forces him to move back; it’s either that or fall face forward. He looks put out, and well he might.
I’m all for saying what you want upfront, but the whole Daddy thing feels calculated as well as downright cheesy.
Not tonight, sweet cheeks.
“Whilst I’m very flattered by your attention, I should inform you it’s misplaced tonight.”
All traces of his former simpering vanish, replaced by a confused frown.
“I’m sorry, but it’s not what I’m here for tonight,” I say gently. “Let me buy you a drink. Blue’s cocktails are legendary.” They are, if you enjoy something lurid with straws and pieces of fruit. I prefer a good G&T but I imagine the cocktails are more to my uninvited companion’s taste. But he doesn’t accept my offer of a very pricey drink.
“What do you mean, it’s not what you’re here for? If you’re not, then what’s the point? It’s what everybody’s here for. To hook up. Look,” he says, edging closer, the smile creeping back on his face. “I think you’re seriously hot. You can fuck me, if you want, or I can go down—”
“No.”
I really don’t want to hear what I can do for him, or what he can do for me in the toilets, or outside in one of Soho’s many small, dark, twisting back alleys. I know more about what two men can do with, and to, each other, than he’ll ever know, because I’ve been doing it since before he was even born. That thought in itself should be a shot of cold water, but it’s not — it’s what he said before: what’s the point?
I don’t have an answer.
The guy’s already turning away. He’s lost interest, thank God, and a second later he disappears into the crowd, in search of somebody who’ll be a lot more amenable to fulfilling his fantasies for the night. I don’t even bother finishing my drink. Seconds later, I’m pushing my way out onto the street, his words still ringing in my ears.
* * *
It’s almost ten-thirty, but that’s early for an area like this, and many of the clubs and late night bars are only just beginning to fill up. There are literally dozens of places I could go, but I don’t want to, even though I’m feeling restless and edgy. Perhaps it’s the guy’s question, the one I couldn’t answer.
I huff and jiggle my shoulders in an attempt to dislodge the amorphous dissatisfaction creeping up my spine. I should go home and put this evening behind me, but returning to the empty silence of my huge Highgate house that was built for a sprawling Victorian family and its servants, but which is now home to just me, fills me with gloom.
What the bloody hell’s the matter with me tonight?
It’s another question I can’t answer.
Soho’s streets are teeming, packed with revellers marking the start of the weekend. I’ve no interest in joining them, as I head towards the tube to make the journey home. Turning into a small street, a neon light burns bright. It’s the distraction I need, and seconds later I’m pushing open the door to the café-bar that’s a Soho institution.
Café Alberto, or Bert’s as it’s commonly known to those of us who have been coming there on and off for years, is a long, narrow, austere-looking place. Its walls are covered in black and white photos of either long dead or currently decrepit Italian-American film stars. The seats towards the back have always sat in the perpetual gloom of low wattage wall lights, and tonight is no different.
There are only a few customers dotted around. Much of the café’s business will done later, when Soho’s clubs and bars finally disgorge the drunk and the drugged, the mad, bad, and possibly dangerous to know. For now, those who are here are mostly intent on their phones.
An Americano with an extra shot is my caffeine of choice and, heaped up with three sugars, it’s the fuel that keeps me on the go for much of my working day and beyond.
My greedy eyes examine the contents of the display case, packed full of sugary delights. They’re like crack cocaine for my sweet tooth. Since hitting fifty, three years ago, even the odd pound or two of excess weight seems harder to shift. Not that anybody would know that. It’s not vanity, it’s just a fact. I dither, but decide on just the coffee. There’s a vacant table situated by the window, as I may as well watch the free cabaret that’s taking place on the streets outside, when movement at one of the tucked away, up against the wall tables towards the back of the café catches my eye. It could be anybody, but something makes me take a closer look.
“Perry?”
The shadowy figure, already slumped, slumps further. I take a step closer. Yes, it’s Perry, Elliot’s young Executive Assistant, the man I tease and flirt with unmercifully every time I call into Elliot’s office.
Perry, always smart looking, pristine, buttoned up, the man I refer to as sugar on legs, just to make Elliot squirm. He’s not those things now because he looks like he’s been dragged through a hedge backwards. I sniff, and wrinkle my nose. He’s pissed.
I put my coffee down on the table, and pull out the chair opposite him.
“James,” he slurs. Blinking his big brown eyes at me from his gloomy corner, he makes me think of an owl. “Join me for a drink.” He tries to push himself upright, but clumsy and uncoordinated, he gives up and slumps back. “But you’ll have to pay, ‘cause I don’t have any money left. It’s all gone.” He goes to pick up the bottled beer in front of him, but his hands are unsteady and I grab it before he can send it flying across the table. “S’my beer.” He tries to take it back off me, but I’m holding it out of reach. Losing what little balance he has, he falls face first on the table. “Ooh, fuck,” he mumbles.
“I think you might have had a few too many.” A few? He’s completely trashed.
“Not enough. Buy me a drink and I’ll give you a kiss. Reckon you’d like that.” He pulls himself upright, and grins, and blinks his owlish, and very glazed, eyes.
Perry reckons correctly. At any other time, I would like a kiss — but not now, especially not when he’s drunk off his arse. He sways in his seat, trying to sit upright, before he gives up the fight and crumples against the wall.
“Yes, I’ll buy you a drink. A very strong coffee.”
Perry frowns, and belches. “Rather have a beer.”
I ignore him and nip to the counter, keeping an eye on him, although it’s not as if he’s going to be able to make a run for it — I doubt he can even stand up on his own. Moments later I’m armed with a large Americano that’s so strong I swear it’s got muscles.
“Listen to me. You’re going to drink this, and then I’m going to get you home.”
He glares at me, doing his best to look stroppy, but I glare back at him and he drops his gaze and complies, picking up the mug in shaking hands. Not too much of it slops over the side and onto the table, but still, I jump up and drag my chair around so I’m next to him. Placing my hands over his, I guide the mug to his lips to stop him from spilling it down his front. This close, the alcohol fumes are stronger, not just beer but spirits, too.
Perry takes a sip. “Don’t want any more.” He turns his head away, the way babies do when they’ve had enough of whatever slop the parent’s trying to get them to eat.
“Too bad, you’re drinking it. You need to sober up.” It’ll take a lot more than a mug of coffee to achieve that, but it’s a start.
“Don’t tell me what to do. I’m fed up with everybody telling me what to do.”
“I’m not everybody, I’m James. Which means you’re going to do as you’re told. Exactly as you’re told.”
His head jerks around, and he stares at me with unfocused, saucer eyes. This close, it’s impossible to miss the honeycomb-gold flecking the deep brown, or how thick and dark and long his lashes are, or how pillowy and plump his lips, which are parted and forming an O of surprise. Pretty Perry, so, so pretty, and so young looking — younger than I know him to be — but he’s plastered and stinking of booze, which means this isn’t the time or place to be noticing.
Yet I have noticed him, ever since he started working for Elliot, three or so years ago. Pretty Perry. Teasing him, watching the flush creep up his face, and sometimes even coaxing a shy smile, I’ve enjoyed every minute of it, and I think he has too.
The boy is utterly gorgeous, from the top of his head to the tips of his toes, and maybe that’s why I’ve never done more than tease. Yet, he’s not a boy, he’s a man. Twenty-five, twenty-six, maybe, but he’s so fresh faced, it’s easy to forget.
It’d have been so easy, during the time I’ve known Perry, to launch a full scale seduction, but I’ve always stayed on the right side of the line, confining myself to flirting. It’s all because there’s a but, and it’s called Elliot. He wouldn’t think too much of me making a full-on move on his assistant, and he’d let me know it in no uncertain terms because he knows the sort of man I am. I know the sort of man I am. I don’t give a damn what most people may think of me, but Elliot’s my oldest, most valued friend, which doesn’t make him most people.
I’ve got some scruples, even if they are hidden somewhere deep and dark.
He burps and I’m enveloped in a beery cloud.
“James. James, James, James,” he says, slurring, his lips curving up into a sly smile. “Bet you like telling people what to do. I mean really, really, really like. Always flirting with me when you come into the office. Don’t think I don’t notice. ‘Cause I do.”
“And there was me, thinking I was being subtle. Here, drink some more.”
Perry does as he’s told, his former resistance forgotten.
He nods his head slowly, and his brow puckers as though he’s thinking hard, and trying to gather his thoughts.
“I’ve given it a lot of consid—consid—thought. Yes, thought. You’re hot. For an old man,” he adds.
“Very kind of you to say so.” Perhaps I should take the opportunity to tell him I still have all my own teeth and hair.
“You’re very welcome.” He takes another sip, this time managing to hold the mug himself. He’s still drunk, but the strong coffee seems to be taking the edge off his intoxication. “Can’t drink anymore. Sorry.” He puts the mug down with a clatter on the metal-topped table. Three quarters of it’s gone, and that’s good enough. Now, it’s a case of getting him up, out, and home.
“We going clubbing?” he says, when I pull him to his feet. He’s managing to keep upright, but he’s unsteady, swaying like a reed in the breeze.
“Not tonight. You need to get home and go to bed.”
And look forward to the monster hangover you’re going to have in the morning.
“Go to bed with you. I could show you what I can do with my—” He lurches forward, slinging his arms around me.
His surprise attack catches me off guard, causing me to stumble back a step or two.
“We can do all kinds of stuff. Kinky stuff. Do you like kinky stuff? You look like you like kinky stuff. Yeah, bet you’re a kinky old fucker.” He tries to kiss me, but I manage to duck and his lips slide across my ear, but I can’t duck his leg, which he manages to hook around mine as he starts to dry hump me.
“Stop. At once.” I slap him hard on the arse and he yelps; he drops his leg and blinks at me, making me think of an ill-treated puppy.
“That hurt. Don’t like spanking. Grant likes it, but I don’t. Bet you do. Knew you were kinky. I’m not kinky. And I told Grant that, I did. I said, I’m not wearing — certain things. And you know what he called me? Mr Whippy. Mr fucking Whippy. Didn’t get it, not at first. But then I did. Cold, bland, and vanilla. You don’t think I’m a Mr Whippy, do you?”
“No, Perry, I don’t. Not at all. Don’t you take any notice of Grant.”
I have no idea who Grant is, but I can guess. So this is the reason for Perry’s intoxication: boyfriend troubles.
Draped around me, he’s tightened his hold. His arms are coiled around my neck and his head falls forward onto my shoulder as I manhandle him out of the café. The burly Italian-looking guy behind the counter gives us a nod and a raise of his brows. He’s seen this and a whole lot more before.
“I’m taking you home. Perry? Where do you live? Do you live with Grant?” Grant who likes to spank Perry… I push the thought away. “Perry? Come on, tell me where you live.” Wherever it is, I’m going with him, because he’s too vulnerable to be left alone in the middle of Soho.
“In the basement.” He starts to laugh as though he’s said something hilarious, but I can’t see the joke.
I hail a cab, and the driver’s smile falls away when he sees the state of Perry.
“If he throws up—”
“He won’t,” I snap. Or at least I hope not. “Do you want this fare, or not?”
I don’t give him the chance to argue as I bundle Perry into the back.
“Where do you live?” I hope it’s not some godforsaken suburb miles and miles away.
“Told you. In the basement. At work.” He flops back into the corner and looks at me as though what he says makes perfect sense. “Don’t have a real home. Not anymore.” He frowns, something getting through his drink-soaked brain that he might need to explain a little.
“Gents—”
“Just wait.”
The cabbie mutters something I doubt is complementary but I don’t give a damn.
“Perry, have or have you not got a home, a proper home, to go to tonight?” I keep my voice low, and gentle. Huddled in the corner, his suit rumpled and his tie hanging loose and partially undone, he looks tired, dejected and unspeakably sad as his eyes fill with glittery tears.
“No.” He shakes his head and turns to face the window, as though ashamed to be seen as he fights a losing battle against the tears streaming down his face.
There’s only one decision to be made. I give the driver my address, because tonight, Perry’s coming home with me.
