Give Yourself Away (8 page)

He left the biscuits on the doorstep, stuck his hands into his pockets and walked away.

When he heard the crunch of gravel as Caleb headed down the drive, March let out a shuddery breath. Why the fuck hadn’t he opened the door?

Because if he’d have invited the guy in, the temptation to push him up against the wall and do something stupid might have been too strong to resist. Although that assumed March knew what to do, and he didn’t. He’d spent so long fighting his sexuality he was going to look like an idiot when he finally went for what he wanted—if he ever did—if he really wanted it.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.

For the first time March wondered if he should see someone—a psychiatrist or a psychologist—or just go for something simpler and pay for sex with a guy. Maybe that would fill the gaping chasm in his chest. He couldn’t get his head around why he was so mixed up about this, though he suspected guilt had something to do with it.

Maybe he ought to draw up another search pattern, pay for more age-enhanced sketches. Maybe he should just stop fucking thinking about any of it because he was driving himself mad.

Well, if he wasn’t going to do anything about it, including not meeting Caleb in the pub, he had to stop dwelling on his fucked-up life because the only person he had to thank for that was himself, and he was the only one who could unfuck it.

He managed no more than five minutes reading a book before he gave in and headed for the garage. He loaded his car with his wet suit and kitesurfing equipment, and drove to Roundels Bay.

He was almost there when a call came through from his mother.

“
Bonjour
,
Maman
,” he said.

“You’re driving. You’re not holding your phone, are you?”

“Nope.” She asked him that every time.

“How are you?”

“Still alive.” March regretted the quip the moment it left his lips.

“Try to outlive me and your stepfather. It would be very inconvenient to have to come back to England and sort out your affairs.”

“Good thing I know you’re joking.”

“How’s work?”

“Great.”

“Saved any lives?”

“No, it’s all quiet.”

“Made any progress with your book?”

“Yep, it’s going well.”
As in, not at all.

“Met anyone you want to bring out to meet us?”

And there was the point of the call.

“No.”

“I wish you’d come back here to live. Your French is good enough to teach history at any level.”

“I’m happy where I am.” He wasn’t. “How’s Papa?” If his stepfather wasn’t at work, he was probably at the golf club.

“He’s fine. Sends his love. Come and visit soon. I miss you.”

“I will. Got to go now. Bye.”

“Bye, B—”

March cut her off and pulled into the empty parking lot that overlooked Roundels Bay. He climbed out of the car and stared out to sea.

It was too windy. There was a chance of injury or losing his kite. There were no other idiots out there because it was a cross-offshore wind, one that could carry him away from land if he cocked up. A wind blowing in that direction tended to be gusty and turbulent, and those choosing to kitesurf in these sorts of conditions needed a support boat and definitely ought not to be out there alone.

I know all that.

March changed into his wet suit, hid his keys behind a tire and carried his equipment down to the empty beach.

He’d not sorted out the kite after his last adventure so he had to unravel it and weigh it down with sand while he untangled the lines. Once that was done, he dropped the board downwind, close to the water, and tucked his feet into the bindings. A few tugs at the kite and it began to inflate.

March tightened his grip on the bar and waited. When the kite was up and the wind strong enough, he allowed himself to be lifted from the sand and carried over the sea.

It was too fucking windy. But he sped across the surface so fast he barely had time to breathe, let alone think, exhilarated by his speed. March turned and jumped before he ended up halfway to visiting his mother on the other side of the Channel. He was slightly freaked out at the height he’d gained, but he wasn’t really out of control, as much as you could say any kitesurfer was in control when one wrong gust could send you spiraling.

Bring it on.

Chapter Eight

“Liam wants to fuck us.”
Tye rushed the words out while he felt brave enough to say them.

Baxter stared at him without blinking.

“He wants to make money too.” Tye took a deep breath. “Maybe he wants to film what he does. Or let other guys fuck us and pay him. Or…” he felt his courage shrivel inside him as he said the last part, hoping Baxter didn’t look disgusted, “…or he wants us to fuck each other.”

Baxter nodded. “I wasn’t sure you understood.”

“I might be three years younger than you but I’m not stupid.”

“I know you’re not stupid. You’re smart. You didn’t want to talk to Liam. You didn’t want to get those rods. You thought about making a ladder with the bikes.” Baxter took Tye’s hand and held it tight. “I’d let him fuck me if I thought he’d really let you go, but I don’t think either of us is going to walk away. And he won’t care whether we let him touch us or not. He’ll just do it.”

Tye bit his cheeks to stop himself crying.

Baxter closed his eyes. “He says we can choose but I think he wants to keep you. He’ll take me away in his van and tell you he dropped me off near my house but instead he’ll…” He opened his eyes again. “Or maybe he’d sell me to someone else.”

“Our pictures will be in the papers and on TV. Who’d risk buying either of us?”

“Someone in another country. The Middle East? The Far East?”

Tye gulped. “Really?”

“Maybe.”

“We need another plan,” Tye said. “What if I tell him I’ll give him a blowjob if he lets you have a shower? While he’s with me, you find a way out of the house and run.”

“Or while he’s busy with me, you hit him over the head and we both run.”

Tye swallowed hard. “What if I don’t hit him hard enough? Or too hard?”

Baxter let out a heavy sigh. “Doesn’t matter. He won’t let both of us out at the same time.”

“We have to make him.”

“How?”

“We…could quarrel. Fight. One of us could pretend to be unconscious.”

Baxter shook his head. “He won’t care.”

Tye chewed his lip. “Then we have to make him think we’re grateful…that we both want him. If we can do that, he might let his guard down and we could get away.”

“He’s not going to believe it. I don’t want him to touch you.” Baxter stroked Tye’s face, ran his thumb across his mouth, and it was all Tye could do not to cry.

How could he tell Baxter that he’d like it if he fucked him? That he was gay, and Baxter was all he’d ever wanted and that would never change?

* * *

Caleb was in a field having a piss when March drove past in his Peugeot. So he had been at home. Caleb huffed. All he’d wanted to say was thank you. Had March heard him? Even if he’d been tempted to leap out—after he zipped up—he wasn’t going to. He’d look like a freaky stalker.

As he continued down toward the town he spotted March turn left onto a road that Caleb knew led only to Roundels Bay. He and his friend had cycled there a couple of times, made a day of it and taken sandwiches. Caleb reached the turn, hesitated and then followed.
So I
am
a freaky stalker.

When he reached a vantage point that gave a view of the beach, he could see bar-tailed godwits wading in the shallows and a dark-haired kitesurfer out on the water. Too far away to be certain it was March, but Caleb thought it was.

Caleb settled on a rock out of the wind, tilting his head so his face was washed by the lemony sunshine and watched as the guy expertly skimmed the waves, rising into the air time after time. One jump seemed to take him up to an impossible height and Caleb’s heart leapt into his mouth until the board was safely back down skimming the sea.

There was no way he could ever try that. First Simon and then Mike had made fun of him because he was so safety conscious. Caleb would walk fifty yards to find a zebra crossing to get over a road that wasn’t even busy. He wore safety goggles when he worked. If he had to go up a ladder, he put on his hard hat. He double-checked equipment. If a shield or guard was missing on a rotary saw, he refused to use it. Caleb thought all that was common sense, though he knew he was more cautious than most.

He couldn’t help it. One error of judgment had robbed him of too many years, robbed him of his best friend. He was determined to hang on to what he had left of his life for as long as he could. Unlike the kitesurfer who seemed careless of his own safety and rode the sea like a rampaging Viking, dropping down to do teasing runs along the waves before soaring into the air like a colorful prehistoric bird. And when Caleb worried the guy was a little far out, on the next run he zoomed closer to shore.

No way could Caleb walk away. He was seriously impressed and heart-thumpingly terrified, so much so that he didn’t even pay much attention to the godwits. The kitesurfer was more enticing.

The guy finally came out of the sea and Caleb saw it
was
March. When he peeled his wet suit down to his waist to reveal broad shoulders, rounded pecs with tight, dark nipples and rippling abs, Caleb let out a quiet sigh. A trail of dark hair disappeared under the neoprene and Caleb wished he could follow it.

March’s skin looked smooth, tanned and unblemished, and envy twisted Caleb’s gut, just for a while. He watched as March dried the kite in the wind before he folded it and packed it away. Only when he headed off the beach did Caleb realize he should have moved sooner. He wasn’t sure he could get back to the road to town before March saw him, so he hid behind a rock until he’d heard the car pass.

Way to be brave.

By the time Caleb had walked back to town from Roundels Bay, it was late afternoon. A tour of the estate agents provided him with details of places to rent. He hoped to find something cheap now the tourist season was over. Although he ought not to be spending money on clothes, he splashed out on a pair of gray chinos, a white-linen shirt, blue sweater and dark shoes, and kept them on. And he bought a packet of chocolate chip cookies.

I’m pathetic.
March wouldn’t turn up at the pub, and even if he did, he probably wasn’t gay. Nor should Caleb forget he’d only just emerged from a four-month relationship with Mike. Frying pan and fire came to mind.

Victor had sent him a snappy text.
Just in case you’re interested. Mike feeling much better. Should be out in a couple of days.

Caleb felt guilty he’d not checked how Mike was, until he remembered the look of blind fury in the guy’s eyes and the way Mike’s fingers had tightened around his neck and the panic attack that followed. Didn’t matter that Mike was out of his mind on something, he’d still done it. Anyway, if Mike had been attacked because of him, the farther Caleb stayed away from him, the better. But he still called Victor.

“Sorry,” Caleb said. “I’ve been kind of busy.”

Victor snorted. “Too busy for one telephone call?”

“I had a bit of an accident.”

“Christ, are you okay?”

“I fell in the sea and was saved by the Lymton lifeboat.” Caleb winced. Why had he told Victor that? “Don’t tell anyone. I feel a prat.”

“The lifeboat? So did a hunky guy pull you out? Forgotten Mike already?”

Caleb cut Victor off. He ought not to have phoned him. Victor had heard Mike supposedly dump him. Why should Caleb still want the guy?

He told himself not to go to the pub too early but by six twenty, he was sitting in the bar with a pint, looking at the menu. He ordered a cheese omelet and chips, then went through the lettings.

Nowhere was as cheap as he’d hoped. The problem was that even starter homes were too expensive for first-time buyers; consequently, the rental market was buoyant. Maybe he’d have to go for house-sharing again.

His phone pinged with another text and when he read it, he groaned. There would be no more work where the last contract had come from. Ricardo was moving north to be nearer his elderly parents.

“That was a big sigh.” A guy in his fifties put Caleb’s food on the table, along with cutlery wrapped in a napkin.

“Don’t know anyone who needs a carpenter, do you?”

The guy raised his eyebrows. “That wasn’t what I thought you were going to say.”

“I don’t look like a carpenter?”

“More like a singer.”

Caleb laughed. “That would only last until you heard me sing.” He nodded at the plate. “This looks great.”

“Anything else I can get you?”

“No, I’m fine, thanks.”

The omelet and chips were okay. Caleb would have added a few herbs and double-cooked the chips, but they filled a hole in his stomach.

Again he went through the places to let and put aside the ones he wasn’t interested in. When Caleb ran out of something to do while he waited, he went through the rejects a third time.

Someone dropped into the seat beside him and his stomach lurched until he realized it wasn’t March. The guy was probably in his forties with short gray hair and a salt-and-pepper goatee.

“I hear you’re looking for work,” he said. “And a place to stay?” He nodded at the pile of papers.

“Yes,” Caleb said warily.

“You any good with your hands?”

Caleb’s heart began to beat faster. “I can call the guy I’ve been working for and he’ll vouch for me.”
This guy
is
talking about carpentry, right?

“Okay.”

Caleb phoned Ricardo, praying he’d answer.

“I’m sorry,” Ricardo said. “I know you hoped I’d need you again.”

“It’s okay. Would you mind telling…?” He looked at the guy next to him.

“Jed Morris.”

“Would you tell Mr. Morris what you think of my work? He might have a job for me.” Caleb handed over his phone.

After a few minutes’ conversation, Caleb had his phone back. He knew Ricardo had sung his praises because Caleb was good at what he did and worked hard.

“Right,” the man said. “I’ve bought Sandbery Cove Holiday Village and I’m renovating the lodges, but one of my guys broke his arm yesterday jumping off a picnic table—the prat. If you prove to me you know what you’re doing and promise not to jump off any tables, you can have the job and live in one of the unrenovated places while you’re working.”

“A job and somewhere to stay? That sounds great. Thanks, Mr. Morris.”

“Ten pounds an hour. Almost everything’s been stripped out of the lodges so it won’t be much more than a roof over your head and you’ll have to pay for your gas and electric.”

“Okay.”

“And call me Jed, not Mr. Morris.” He held out his hand and Caleb shook it.

“I’ll meet you there first thing on Monday. What’s your mobile number?”

Caleb rattled it off and Jed called him.

“Now you have mine in case there’s any problem.” Jed pushed to his feet.

“What does ‘first thing’ mean?” Caleb blurted.

“Soon as it’s light. I have a long drive from here to the office.”

After Jed left, Caleb sat with a big smile on his face. For once, something was going right. He stood to get himself another drink and glanced through the window to see March’s Peugeot pulling into the car park. His heart rate rocketed. He’d wait and buy a drink for March too.

Caleb settled back in his seat, a warm glow in the pit of his stomach, and hidden by the curtain, he stared out of the window.

This is a bad idea. A really bad idea.
But March climbed out of his car and headed across the car park, only to go into reverse and get back in again. A moment later he was heading home, furious with himself, though whether that was because he’d showered and changed and driven to the pub in the first place, or because he was going home without setting foot inside, he had no idea.

Liar.
March gulped. Yeah, he was a liar. His whole fucking life was a lie. He wondered if it was possible to be more miserable.
Stop feeling so fucking sorry for yourself.

He pushed down on the accelerator even though the road had narrowed, skidded onto his drive probably faster than his best time, town to home, and felt no satisfaction whatsoever.

An empty house awaited him and it was his own fault. It was all he deserved and it matched the hole in his heart. He slammed the door, staggered to a halt halfway down the dark hallway, pressed his forehead against the wall and closed his eyes.

Is this what he wanted? To be miserable for the rest of his life? Is this what
he
would have wanted?

Almost unconsciously, March wrenched his shirt and sweater over his head and tossed them aside. His fingers drifted to his nipples and they tightened at his touch. Oh God. March fumbled with the button then the zipper on his pants and yanked them down. He wasn’t wearing shorts.

He could almost feel an exhalation across the wet tip of his cock, the sensation enough to make him shudder. His imagination on full power, Caleb’s face in his mind, the teasing breath came again, followed by the impression of strands of silky hair brushing his thighs.

Would he let me fuck him? Would I let him fuck me?

March groaned. What was he doing with his life?

Nothing.

This could have been real, not something in his head. Caleb could have been on his knees in front of him. Why had he driven out of the pub car park? Scared he’d lose the memories he cherished? He wouldn’t let that happen.
No man would make that happen.

March wrapped his hand around his dick and pulled the rigid shaft down over his swollen sac, rocking it into his balls. His knees threatened to buckle. Oh fuck, oh fuck. He imagined Caleb’s warm, wet tongue slowly licking from the base to the tip, before dipping into the slit, and March clenched his butt cheeks. Orgasm gathered like floodwater surging against an unstable dam. Pressure built.

March imagined pushing his cock into a hot, tight hole, dragging it out, driving it back in. He tried to picture a stranger’s face instead, but Caleb’s pale, seductive features were the ones he saw, those dark eyes staring unblinking at him. Oh shit. No. Tension sank its claws into the base of March’s skull and triggered a flash of lightning down his spine. He just managed to cup his hand over the head of his cock before he came, his stomach wrenching with each jet of come.