Quid Pro Quo
Quid Pro Quo
by L. A. Witt &
Riptide Publishing
PO Box 6652
Hillsborough, NJ 08844
http://www.riptidepublishing.com
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.
Quid Pro Quo (Market Garden, #1)
Copyright © 2013 by L.A. Witt and Aleksandr Voinov
Cover Art by Jordan Taylor
, http://bit.ly/uGAHFK
Editors: JoSelle Vanderhooft and Rachel Haimowitz
Layout: L.C. Cha
se, www.lcchase.com/design.htm
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ISBN: 978-1-937551-89-6
First edition
January, 2013
Also available in paperback:
ISBN: 978-1-937551-90-2
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For the past six months, Jared’s been selling sex at Market Garden, a London club that caters to the better-off. But
business is slow in the run-up to Christmas, when businessmen and bankers are too busy bickering over bonuses to rent
themselves a little high-class action.
Though Jared’s wallet finds the downtime unnerving, the rest of him rather enjoys the opportunity it gives him to admire Tristan, an old hand in the club whose reputation usually
sees him well booked. Jared has been crushing on Tristan for months—he’s no more immune to Tristan’s cockiness and
confidence than the johns, and those are just Tristan’s inner qualities.
Just as Jared’s about to chat Tristan up, a businessman asks for something a little different: he wants to book them both.
They agree—and Jared finds himself going from crush to
mind-bending lust as he’s made the pawn in a sexual power
game. Tristan shows him how a pro handles a john while
delivering the top-shelf sex for which the Market Garden is so rightly renowned.
To Lori, who rocks so hard. —Aleks
To Aleks, who challenges me to be a better writer. —Lori
east or famine in this place, isn’t it?” Tristan sighed
“F
heavily. He wore his boredom as if he wondered how
dare
the universe not entertain him, and lounged as much as anyone could on a barstool. He was like a cat in that respect.
He could stretch and bend to get comfortable—at least,
Jared assumed he was comfortable—anywhere he damn well
pleased. Right now, his arm seemed like the only solid piece of his body, his elbow on the bar and his hand against his face, holding up his head as the rest of him poured over the edge of the bar, onto the seat, and down the stool leg to where the toe of his boot touched the floor.
Jared wasn’t quite so comfortable. It was hard to relax
when the wallet in the back pocket of his tight leather trousers was getting close to empty. Looking out at Market Garden’s mostly vacant lounge, where each of the few potential johns were already under the spells of at least one or two other rentboys, he said, “Does it get like this a lot in December?” It had been for two weeks. Almost three now.
Tristan shrugged. “Sometimes. Economy and all that.” He
sighed again and waved his hand. “Apparently people think
it’s a good idea to buy food before renting a cock or an arse for the evening.”
Jared would’ve laughed at the comment—so very
typically Tristan—but it was hard to find the humour when
he was in possession of a cock and an arse that desperately needed renting. After al ,
he
needed to buy food. Never mind Christmas presents. And probably a new fridge.
1
“Relax.” Tristan smoothed a few long strands of ink-black
hair out of his own face. “Payday’s coming up for most of
them. They’ll be back.”
Question is, will they be back before rent’s due?
“Everything changes with bonus season. Guys’ll have
money to burn, and they’ll celebrate
not
getting laid off before Christmas by getting laid.” Tristan’s boneless figure solidified one liquid joint at a time, and he sat up, rol ing his shoulders under his slick, black shirt. “Well, as long as there’s some booths that aren’t occupied, we should go sit someplace more comfortable.”
Jared hesitated. “W-we?”
Tristan paused. “You don’t want to?”
“I didn’t say that. I just—”
Didn’t think you’d . . . I mean,
guys like you don’t usually . . . I’m me, and you’re you, and . . .
Jared shook himself to life. “Sure. Yeah.”
Tristan gave him a puzzled look, but didn’t say anything
and started across the lounge.
Jared picked up his drink. It was nonalcoholic, of course, since employees weren’t allowed anything else on the job. The rule was enforced too. There were a few guys who’d thought giving Raoul, the head bartender, a free blowjob would result in him breaking the rules and spiking their orange juices with vodka or the Coke with rum, but rumour had it all they got was a belly full of cum and, worst-case scenario, a swift and permanent dismissal from Market Garden.
Jared stood and followed his catlike colleague across the
lounge, which was more crowded with tables and chairs than with anyone occupying them. Well, maybe tonight wasn’t
all bad. He might not get paid, but it also didn’t cost him anything to look Tristan up and down as he walked. Tight
2
leather, lithe body, slinking gait; God, it was no wonder he was in such high demand. Most of the time, anyway. Higher
demand than a lot of the guys here, Jared included, but lower than food, heating, and mobile phones.
Jared reminded himself he just hadn’t been here long
enough to be in demand like Tristan. He’d worked for Market Garden for about six months, ever since post-exam boredom
had led him to search for more excitement than he’d found
stripping on the weekends, which he’d done since his second semester of university. This was more enjoyable and much
more profitable, so he’d stuck with it even after classes had started again.
He never imagined he’d ever be a rentboy. Might be
something to leave off the CV, but he’d deal with that if there were any jobs available at all when he graduated. For now, he enjoyed it, especially with that thick wad of quid he had in his back pocket at the end of an evening.
At the end of
most
evenings. Before the past three weeks or so, anyway.
Part of him still thought a guy paying for sex was
somewhat pathetic, even though he now understood that
not everybody who did so was too ugly or too creepy to score on the open market, as it were. Some guys just considered it a legitimate shortcut past all the wining and dining or even getting onto Grindr and dealing with people who faked their profile pictures—or total sexual incompatibility even if they hadn’t.
He could get behind that, he supposed, certainly with the
income possibilities it opened up, though he was studying
bloody hard for his exams and thus had cut back on the
work. He didn’t need slow nights like this at al . He was too 3
skint. And his landlord was an arsehole, one of those buy-to-let vampires that kept increasing rents at least every year but consistently failed to get even the most basic repairs done.
Though, it was really hard to think about broken fridges
when he watched Tristan walk. Jared just hoped he looked
even half as nonchalant when he planted himself down in the booth next to Tristan.
Well, if there was a silver lining to all this boredom, it was that it did create an opportunity for Jared to get to know Tristan. Usually work didn’t leave enough time for more than the most superficial socialising with the other employees, so he knew nothing about the guy. Except that he was hot and
popular. Tristan might not even be his real name. The only thing he could safely assume was that Tristan’s slouching
petulance likely meant he had never managed to hold down a minimum-wage job at Tesco. They tended to like people more eager and awake in those pathetic cashier jobs. Tristan would probably just turn around and saunter off if he got shit from a customer. And jobs like that bred boredom, something for which Tristan obviously had no tolerance.
Jared toyed with his straw. He still couldn’t quite believe he was sitting here next to Tristan. At Tristan’s invitation, no less. He tried not to flatter himself; Tristan hadn’t sought him out in a crowd. Jared had just been the nearest bendable ear without a john trying to climb into his lap.
Jared chased an ice cube around in his glass. “So. Um.
