Country Mouse (13 page)

But he couldn’t concentrate. He realized that when he kept staring at Bloomberg and the tidy rows of information streaming across, which usually formed his lifeblood and his heartbeat, looked as alien and meaningless as love poetry from Jupiter. Nothing even left so much as dew on his brain. What on earth was going on in the market?

He mumbled a “good morning” as his colleagues arrived and logged in, bragging over exploits of the weekend. Alcohol consumed, sexual practices, one guy was gloating over his ex-Royal Marines personal trainer as if the guy’s toughness was somehow to his personal merit. Usually, he liked that, but he really wasn’t in the mood today.

“Hangover?”

Yep, predictable at that. Best response—no response. He made a few trades, did some client business, but he couldn’t get into the headspace. It took as little as looking at his neighbor’s desk (which had a photo of his wife; at least he assumed she was a wife) to shock him out of the place he went where the decisions happened.

From between getting an order and fulfilling it, he couldn’t remember the most basic thing. He ended up totally botching a trade—
yep, last time we checked, Malcolm, buying is not the same as selling, arsehole, and thank God you put in all the right numbers at least
—and the entire world was skewed only two hours into the trading day. Then there were rumors about the European Central Bank possibly mulling an interest rate hike, and obviously the market went completely apeshit.

He was staring blankly at the red and green numbers when suddenly everything turned red. He couldn’t work out what it meant, or how to respond, or why it was important at all. Those slim windows of opportunities in which to recover from a drop like that, he just didn’t see them. Or he did, but they weren’t numbers at all; every opportunity boiled down to him walking out the door, leaving Owen alone in his flat, watching him go. He lifted his hands gingerly away from the keyboard.

“What’s wrong with you, mate?”

Migraine sounded too much like drinking-related. “I think the Chinese yesterday was a problem.”

Not great either, considering, but the best he had right now. He got up and went to the head of trading, made up some bullshit about Chinese food and prawns, and was duly snapped at and then dismissed for the day. Thank God. He managed to slink out of the bank like somebody ill, then dashed around the corner to snatch a cab.

When he arrived at home, though, Owen was gone. His footsteps in the empty flat rang like a cathedral bell, and for moment, he was back in the church with Owen, who had closed his eyes so trustingly. He was gone.
That
young man was gone. Oh hell. When had he left? Only recently? Fuck, why hadn’t he paid any fucking attention to the departure time? St. Pancras. Owen was headed for Paris and Bruxelles next, right?

He looked around frantically for a clue, but there wasn’t any, so he ran back downstairs, and the ten minutes it took to secure another cab were almost worse than arriving with Owen gone. He only
wished
that elevator feeling in his stomach was bad Chinese prawns.

When the taxi ended up in a traffic snarl not far away from St. Pancras, he overpaid and dashed out to run the rest.

The station was fucking enormous, people milling around, and it felt like he had to traverse the whole fucking station to get to the Eurostar terminal tucked away in a side entrance between a coffee shop and a supermarket.

Owen was taller than pretty much everybody else—okay, minus that enormous Nigerian and his wife over there—so it shouldn’t be too fucking difficult. But Malcolm didn’t see him, and his stomach roiled some more. Oh please . . . please please please
please
let his oversized Yank be in this crowd!

He checked the screen, but there were several trains to Paris on there, and the people manning the gates to the Eurostar terminal looked at him, bored and impassive. He peered past them, to where some people were just going through the security check. He didn’t think any of them was Owen.

He couldn’t have missed Owen. He couldn’t have. His only option after this was taking a flight to America to the address tacked to the damned suit. The phone. He reached into his pocket, but didn’t find it. Checked the other pocket. Empty. He must have left it in his flat. Had he taken it off the charger this morning?

Back to the main concourse. He almost ran past the coffee shops. Thankfully, they were all completely glass-fronted and—there! There was the familiar brown muddle of hair and the hooded college sweatshirt and the almost impossibly wide shoulders. He’d nearly run right past Owen because he wasn’t used to seeing him with a girl. Well, young woman. Tucked away in a corner, having breakfast.

Thank God. Thank fuck. He rushed into the cafe and almost ran over a Latino waiter who had materialized to show him to a free table. “Oops. I’m with . . .” Malcolm gestured in the vague direction of Owen. “Friends. Just meeting friends. Thanks. No. Sorry.” Get out of my way, arsehole.

He skidded to a halt in front of their table, almost too crazed for words. “Owen?”

The look on Owen’s face was . . . amazing. It was a slow, sunshine realization, and for the first time since Malcolm had run out of his flat that morning he could
breathe
again.

“Yeah?” Owen’s brown eyes were just as tired and just as sad as Malcolm had felt all morning. Owen stood, which sucked because it meant Malcolm had to look up, but suddenly Malcolm didn’t care.

“You can’t.” It was all he had.

“Can’t what?”

“Can’t . . . can’t just go away. Can’t just . . . You can’t get on that train and charge out of my life. It’s not fair. I can’t work, dammit! I . . . I made a bad trade.
I
made a bad trade. How dare you? How dare you walk into my flat and . . . and then just . . . just walk out again? How can you even—” His voice was shaking, and Owen, blessed, blessed Owen, didn’t make him suffer.

Those arms—those long, muscular arms—were suddenly around his shoulders, and now he could do more than breathe again, he could
think
again.

“How could you just let me?” Owen asked, his voice as ragged as Malcolm’s.

“I’m the emotionally repressed one,” he said against Owen’s chest. “You’re the one who’s supposed to know better.”

“What now?” Owen dropped his head to nudge Malcolm’s temple with his chin. “How does this work?”

“You stay. You have a visa—”

“A work visa, actually.” Malcolm looked at him, a little shocked, and Owen shrugged. “I’ve got a degree in computer engineering, Malcolm; I’m not completely helpless over here, you know.”

Malcolm found himself laughing, surprised, shocked out of his desperation by simple, everyday good fortune. “Good. If you want to work, you can. I mean, I wouldn’t tie you to the bed or anything, I just want you to stay. Work something out that’s good for both of us. I mean, my flat’s enormous, you wouldn’t need to—”

“You’re babbling, Malcolm.”

“God forbid,” he groused. “Just . . . just stay. Don’t go. I’ll pay for the rest of your trip if you can’t stand me after a week. I’ll come with you for the rest of it, if you can wait until my next holiday. Whatever. I don’t care. Just stay. Walking away from you was like walking away from the best part of me. I almost didn’t recognize him.”

Owen laughed and cupped his face with those long, encompassing hands. “Please tell me he’s the guy I loved last night, and not the guy who made me drink vodka.”

“Yeah,” Malcolm agreed, falling into that wonderful embrace and forgetting that pride had ever been a thing. “That’s the one.”

“Good,” Owen said, and kissed him, hard and with possession and with promise. Behind them, the blonde girl with the expensive tits stood up and patted Owen on the back. “Thanks a lot for sending me to France alone, asshole,” she said, and then walked away and left them, dragging her flowered carry-on with her. Malcolm didn’t care, and Owen didn’t stop the kiss until they were good and ready.

When it ended, they pulled back, resting foreheads together. “And here,” Owen breathed, “I thought you weren’t going to remember my name.”

“Owen,” Malcolm said. It was familiar enough to feel like his own. The blizzard of St. Pancras station whirled about them, but it felt like Owen was the only other person on earth. Malcolm, the big bad Dom, clung to his sweet country mouse like Owen could shelter him in any storm.

Dark Soul Vols. 1
–
5 

Break and Enter, with Rachel Haimowitz

Counterpunch

Scorpion

Dark Edge of Honor, with Rhi Etzweiler

The Lion of Kent, with Kate Cotoner

For a full list, go to www.aleksandrvoinov.com/bookshelf.html

The Promises Series:

Keeping Promise Rock

Making Promises

Living Promises

The Talker Stories:

Talker, Talker’s Redemption, Talker’s Graduation

Coming Soon: 
The Talker Stories (all three stories in one volume)

The Green’s Hill Series:

Litha’s Constant Whim

Guarding the Vampire’s Ghost

I Love You, Asshole

Johnnies: 

Super Sock Man

Chase in Shadow

Coming Soon:
Dex in Blue

Fairy Tales:

Truth in the Dark

Hammer & Air

Also:

The Locker Room

Clear Water

It’s Not Shakespeare

A Solid Core of Alpha

Bewitching Bella’s Brother

Coming Soon:
Gambling Men: The Novel

The Three Fates Anthology (with Andrew Grey and Mary Calmes)

Sidecar

Do Over

Mourning Heaven

For a full list go to
www.greenshill.com

Aleksandr Voinov is an emigrant German author living near London, where he makes his living editing dodgy business English so it makes sense (and doesn’t melt anybody’s brain). He published five novels and many short stories in his native language, then switched to English and hasn’t looked back. His genres range from horror, science fiction, cyberpunk, and fantasy to contemporary, thriller, and historical erotic gay novels.

In his spare time, he goes weightlifting, explores historical sites, and meets other writers. He singlehandedly sustains three London bookstores with his ever-changing research projects and interests. His current interests include World War II, espionage, medieval tournaments, and prisoners of war. He loves traveling, action movies, and spy novels.