Fletcher supposed he should feel flattered at the gesture.
Except he didn’t.
He felt kinda numb. And he wasn’t sure why.
Reaching Heston’s door, he noted it was shut. As expected. He thought about knocking. Maybe he should have done. But there was no sign hanging saying he didn’t want to be disturbed. So he pressed the handle down and opened it up.
What was going on behind closed doors hadn’t been what he’d expected. And his previous apathy was replaced by an explosion of pure, wretched, boiling fury.
Heston’s deep and pleasurable moans echoed through the room and pierced into Fletcher’s still-beating heart. But that only mildly masked the disturbing sound that came from a figure crouched between Heston’s legs and, startled at the intrusion, slurped Heston’s cock out from his mouth.
Heston twisted, his reflection in the adjacent lit-up dressing mirror mimicking his movements. “Do you mind—” He didn’t finish the audacious question when he landed his shocked gaze on Fletcher.
“Aye.” Fletcher clenched and ice-cold blood surged through his veins. “I do fucking mind.”
“Darling!” Heston attempted to tuck his incriminating dick back into his dress trousers.
The very trousers that made up Jay Gatsby.
So much for refusing to go on. He was made-up, dressed-up, primed and ready. What was this? The man’s usual pre-curtain call relaxation method?
Fletcher couldn’t decide whether he needed to throw up or throw a fist. Nor did he know which one of these men before him deserved to receive either one.
Heston stood, his presence as oppressive in the tiny dressing room as it was on a stage. “What are you—?”
“Refusing to go on, were ye? What was it? You have to shoot your load first and I wasn’t quick enough, so ye just pick the nearest?”
“Darling, let’s not start an argument.” Heston said that like a schoolteacher, and not like the one who’d been caught with his pants down and being sucked off by a techie. Or at least that was what the kid looked like, all dressed in black and wiping his mouth as he stared through Fletcher. “I am just about to do a live performance.”
“Ye absolute fecking gobshite!” he growled then twisted and staggered haphazardly down the corridor as fast as his jelly legs allowed.
In a daze, ears ringing, head pounding, he staggered down the steps to the foyer. The usher stood at the box office alongside what could only be the theatre manager pointing at him. Fletcher said nothing and tumbled out into the street, avoiding the pedestrians that were blurs as he dry heaved into the gutter.
What had he just seen? It had been real, hadn’t it? Heston fucking with another man. Not a mere twenty-four hours after having suggested that they do the same…together. How long had this been going on? Was this Heston’s usual warm-up before going out to face the audience?
Did everyone know?
Had he been a fecking moron to have thought Heston had changed for him?
A car screeched to a halt in front of him, splashing rain into his face, and the driver’s window rolled down.
“Ciao, Fletcher.” Diego poked his head out of the window then nodded behind him. “I guess that means you’re available for a little while?”
Fletcher snapped his head up to the sound of that familiar Italian twang. Anger raged inside him and he stood straight when he hollered, “Fuck off, ye fucking—”
He couldn’t finish as two burly men in suits grabbed him under each arm and hauled him into the back of Diego’s car.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Gaslight
Fletcher was in trouble.
That much was obvious as he sat in the back of a car that careened through London traffic, and sat beside him was a burly, suited bouncer with his doppelgänger up front. And Diego driving, who, every so often, peered up into the rear-view mirror to offer him a sparkling smile.
It took a few moments, and Jesus knew how many miles before he found the courage to ask, “You so hard up for a date you have to kidnap a fella?”
Perhaps that was too brazen. But Fletcher was pissed off.
Diego cocked his head, tapping fingers on the steering wheel as they came to a halt at some traffic lights. The other two men remained silent. Fletcher couldn’t even hear their breathing.
“Non capisico. This isn’t a kidnap,” Diego said.
“What do you call it when you accost someone against their will into the back of a moving car?”
“You have a choice. You’re free to go if you so wish.” Diego met his gaze through the mirror.
Fletcher reached for the door and yanked the handle. The thug beside him snapped his arm out quicker than a firework on St John’s Eve and dug his elbow into Fletcher’s chest, pinning him to the seat. The guy in front twisted and held a pistol to his face. Fletcher let the handle go. It had been locked anyway. But he arched an eyebrow at Diego through the mirror.
“I have assurances for if you make the wrong choice.” The Italian offered a secretive smile.
“Grand.” Fletcher slumped back in the seat, his heart now pounding and chest constricted by an arm that was as tight as a seatbelt. “Can I at least ask what this is all about?”
The two mute heavies relaxed. The one next to him removed his log of forearm and the one up front shoved the gun back to wherever it had been hidden before. Then they stared forwards. Like robots. Markedly different to Diego and his almost skippy outlook.
“Why did you come to London, Fletcher?” Diego asked. “Was it for the action? The adventure? The romance?” He rolled the Rs, licked his lips and winked.
Fletcher clenched his jaw. And his fists. Not that he had any plans to throw a punch. Not now he’d seen what these thugs had under their tailored jackets. It could’ve been water pistols for all Fletcher knew. But he wasn’t going to take that chance. Nor did he want to be clotheslined by an arm that was as thick as a tree trunk.
“The job opportunities,” he replied through gritted teeth.
“Of course. A city full of prosperity. Me too.” Diego swerved the car to the left, making Fletcher fall into the shoulder next to him. It wasn’t a soft landing. That was hard bulk beneath expensive stitch work. He levelled himself out to the sound of Diego’s chuckles.
“And what is it you do?” Fletcher asked. “I thought you were security for a hotel.”
“Si.” Diego shrugged. “Well, more the hotelier.”
Shite. Fletcher glanced down to his lap, forcing himself not to utter the curse out loud. Diego’s soft chuckles grated on his skin.
“I think you’re just realising what you’ve got yourself involved in.” Diego halted the car, then swivelled around to face him, his face contorted into amusement. “Are we butt brothers yet?”
Fletcher furrowed his brow. What the feck was all this?
“I know your sugar daddy plays away. But have you been?” Diego tutted through a serene smile.
“Ye fecking pox.”
The two men reached into their jackets and Fletcher flinched, edging back to the door. He should learn to shut up. These weren’t his sisters who he could fight with. These were men. Bad men. Men who wouldn’t think twice about ramming the butt of their guns into his jaw, that was if it wasn’t the real deal and had no issue with pumping him full of lead. So he clamped his mouth closed.