Beauty & the Beast

Chapter 1

Chapter one

If Scott was a book, he needed to be judged by his cover.

He needed to be snatched up and purchased, and once the reader began flicking through his pages, he was whatever story they needed him to be, building to a satisfying climax and hopefully a five-star review and a well-earned tip.

His life as an escort was foremost about how he looked, followed by his performance. He wasn’t a good escort, he was a great one, and since the age of eighteen, he’d been honing his craft. At twenty-nine years old, Scott would’ve described himself as an expert.

An expert escort.

His date for the evening had sent him a message that simply read ‘sequin dress code’.

Sequin.

Who the hell held an event, an auction of all things, and requested the guests wear sequins?

Scott had picked grey tailored pants, black oxford shoes, a peach silk shirt he had open down to the middle of his chest, and the main attraction, a black sequin blazer that had a subtle shimmer.

He didn’t want to go full disco-ball.

Scott brushed his soft brown curls back from his face and added the smallest hint of blusher to his cheekbones, sweeping it towards his temple. His blue eyes popped from his pale skin, and he pencilled eyeliner along the top waterline of his lashes to enhance the unique shade of cornflower blue.

He ducked his head, taking a whiff of himself and humming his approval.

A touch of Black Opium perfume, not aftershave, because at the end of the day, it was fragrance in a bottle and Scott was not afraid of wearing women’s perfume.

The number of men that took him out and complimented his scent staggered him. He wasn’t a walking advertisement for Yves Saint Laurent by any means, there were plenty of others available for purchase, he thought as a disclaimer, but that scent happened to be complimented the most.

Scott looked good, he smelled good, he even walked good with incredible posture and poise, but still his date, a middle-aged man with wide, panicked green eyes and a sweaty top lip, had only managed fifteen minutes of his company before disappearing.

A waiter with a silver tray of glasses strode over, and Scott took a champagne flute with a smile. When he winked, the waiter blushed, averting his gaze. He kept shooting glances at Scott as he moved around the other guests.

At least the waiter found him hot.

Hundreds of people were at the event held on the grounds of a colossal mansion. It was the perfect day for it with clear blue skies but a slight wind to take the edge off the sun’s glare.

There were two auctions going on outside, and two in the building.

Scott had no interest in the tat the auctioneers were selling at astronomical prices.

He frowned when a bear inkwell sold for ￡10,000.

The audience had gasped when the auctioneer removed the bear’s head and showed the ancient glass bottle inside.

Scott didn’t know whether the rich were into inkwells or being able to take the heads off animals.

Going by the taxidermy donkey head that sold soon after, he reasoned it was the latter.

Scott noticed something else when he was stood there waiting for his date to reappear.

Not one other person at the event wore sequins.

They were dressed in their finest suits, dresses and hats. Even Anthony, Scott’s date, hadn’t worn any. Scott was relieved he’d kept it subtle with just the blazer. He slipped it off and hung it over his shoulder.

When Scott had questioned Anthony about the dress code, he’d blurted out he’d just wanted Scott in sequins.

Which was fair enough.

He’d dress to impress.

But why not say that in the first place?

It wasn’t as if Anthony could’ve hidden the lack of other sequin outfits from Scott.

He shook his head. It wasn’t the strangest thing that had happened on a date.

The escort industry threw him into all sorts of odd encounters.

When the next lot was held aloft by the auctioneer’s assistant, a dog head cookie jar, Scott had seen enough.

He downed his glass of champagne, returned it to a silver tray with the cute waiter, then went in search of his elusive date.

He’d been paid for in advance, but he didn’t like the idea of one of his clients locking themselves away, hyperventilating into a toilet with the thought of what he believed he had to do now he’d paid for the service.

It had happened before.

Men changed their minds.

Guilt or fear or shame made them run.

Five per cent of the men who hired Scott backed out.

Another twenty per cent would tell him during the date that they ‘didn’t do things like this’ or ‘didn’t know why they’d contacted him’ or ‘he wasn’t their usual type’.

Usual type meaning women.

Scott reassured them that nothing had to happen. He was a service, and if all his clients wanted to do was talk through their spiralling thoughts about their sexuality, he was happy to oblige.

Some men left and never returned.

Some men booked him again for another talk.

And some men, 75 per cent of them, ended up with their trousers around their ankles and their cocks in Scott’s mouth.

And when it got to that point, they always left satisfied.

Scott took pride in that.

Any hesitancy dried up as soon as Scott was sliding his skilled, wet mouth up and down their erection.

At a guess, from the brief impression Scott had of Anthony, he’d be one of the 5 per cent that disappeared on him, but he had to search just in case.

Scott picked up another champagne flute from a different waiter as he strode into the house.

He arched an eyebrow at the entrance hall, which reminded him of the grand stairway on the Titanic.

Huge oak doors led off from the room, one going left and one going right, and behind each one, Scott heard the droning of another auctioneer attempting to sell some kind of head.

A red velvet rope hung across the top of the staircase with a sign hanging from it that said ‘No entry’.

Scott retreated outside, content to search the gardens instead.

There were flowers of every colour, vibrantly blooming, and Scott ran his hand along one of the shaped hedges.

Bees buzzed. Butterflies fluttered. One hedge turned to two, then an archway, a patio, a herb garden, a vegetable patch.

Barely any other guests could be seen this far into the gardens, and certainly not Anthony with his short brown hair and denim jacket.

Scott knew he needed to turn back. It was more likely Anthony was by the food vendors.

Wagons and trailers selling coffee, tea, waffles, bacon sandwiches and the vegan equivalent were on the other side of the house.

If Anthony was feeling particularly faint, he might’ve bought a bottle of water or be having a lie-down in the first-aid tent set up at the rear of the property.

Scott found himself drawn to a fountain and stood close enough for the spray to touch his skin.

His eyes slid shut, and he sighed at the sun on his skin, the slight wind through his hair.

He let his shoulders drop and his chin fall, and for a moment, exposed the true level of his exhaustion to the garden around him.

It responded, or at least he did. He heard the water more intensely, felt it cleanse his skin with a fine mist. The wind brought the scent of flowers that smelled of burnt toffee, and he twisted his feet in the gravel to feel the texture of it beneath his soles.

A few years ago, Scott wouldn’t have cared for such things, but time had changed him.

Prison time had changed him.

He opened his eyes, cursing himself because time hadn’t changed everything.

He needed money and had a job to do.

Anthony clearly wasn’t going to find him hidden away in the gardens.

Scott straightened, wiped the spray from his cheek, then turned around.

“Fuck!” Scott gasped, clutching his chest.

The man sat on the bench watching him… It wasn’t… It couldn’t be… But it was.

Holy hell, it was.

Thomas, his ex-cellmate.

There was no mistaking him for someone else…

He didn’t have one of those faces. He was unique, terrifyingly so.

Head to toe tattooed like a snake, bald-headed, one eye fake, the other real, but both snake eyes thanks to a fake eye and a contact lens, a forked tongue, and a nose with the tip snipped off to appear more serpent-like.

He was, to all intents and purposes, a human snake.

“What the hell?” Scott spluttered before openly gawping. “How are you… Why are you?”

Thomas hadn’t moved; he hadn’t so much as blinked, and Scott waved a hand in front of him, checking he wasn’t a taxidermy that had yet to be decapitated.

Thomas blinked. “Why are you?” he echoed. “What kind of question is that?”

Scott lowered his hand. “It’s been… It’s been…”

“Four months, a week and three days.”

“Aww, you remember the last time you saw me?”

Thomas narrowed his eyes. “Yes, I fondly remember the last time I had to see your ugly face.”

Scott sighed. “Well, you know ugly.”

Thomas didn’t bite back, and he didn’t smile either. He glared.

Scott’s and Thomas’s lives only collided for a specific reason – they’d both broken the law – and in a specific place, Brixton Prison.

They’d been cellmates for three years, and inside, over the course of those years, they’d learned to get on, dared Scott think it, and even enjoyed each other’s company.

Thomas got banged up for tax avoidance, and Scott got caught blackmailing one of his clients for more money.

He wasn’t proud of it, but he’d been desperate at the time.

Three years they’d spent together, and Thomas was back to glaring at him like he had the first half a year they were cellmates.

Thomas tilted his head. “What the hell are you wearing?”

“The dress code apparently,” Scott replied, looking down at himself.

“There was no dress code.”