Chapter 1 #2
Scott hummed, stepping closer. He gestured to the bench.
Thomas shuffled as far as he could to one end to ensure there was no chance they’d touch when Scott sat down.
Scott rolled his eyes. They’d been in a cell together, showered together and had to witness each other use the toilet during lockdowns.
“Beautiful gardens, aren’t they?” Scott said.
“You looked like you were enjoying them,” Thomas said.
His eyes were hard when they met Scott’s, a lime green with a black slash in the centre.
It hit Scott then that he’d missed them.
Thomas’s personal officer had managed to get Thomas permission to have his snake contact lens, and he stuck one to the prison standard eyeball he was made to have inside.
Thomas continued. “For a minute, that mask you wear slipped.”
Scott gripped his face. “Don’t worry, I put it firmly back in place.”
Thomas’s top lip tugged with a sneer. “What are you doing here, Scott?”
“I could ask you the same.”
“I asked first.”
Scott sighed. “I’m here with a client if you must know.”
Thomas scrunched up his face. He knew what Scott did for a job and had never approved, but Scott was used to that. Escorts weren’t thought of in a good light, even people who used them blasted them.
“Unless your client is the invisible man, I think you might have lost him.”
“Ha. Funny.”
Thomas flared his nostrils, obviously not trying for humour.
“He greeted me in the car park, walked me through the gate, then excused himself to use the restroom.”
“No doubt he’s escaping out of the window after spending five minutes with you.”
Scott glanced at the mansion. “If he does that, he’ll just fall in the moat. I mean, seriously, this place is massive. This is a stately home, right? Surely no one lives here.”
“I believe the house is currently occupied by the owner.”
“The owner must be overcompensating for something.” Scott’s eyebrows jumped to his hairline. He kept twitching them, but Thomas didn’t seem to get his meaning, he kept glaring.
“I mean…he must have a small cock.”
Thomas shook his head and turned away.
“Shit.” Scott winced. “He’s not a friend of yours, is he?”
“He’s no friend of mine.”
Scott nodded, biting his lip. “Have you seen anyone else who was inside Brixton?”
“No… You?”
“No,” Scott admitted. “It’s kind of strange to be that close with a group of people, then just…never see them again.”
“I prefer it that way. I’m more of a solitary creature.”
“You didn’t mind me.”
Thomas slowly turned his head and, through squinted eyes, studied Scott. “You’re not him, not my cellmate. You’re…” He waved a flippant hand. “This.”
“It’s a job.”
“I don’t like fake people.”
“Your whole face is fake. Your eye, your tongue, your nose, every tattooed inch of your skin isn’t the real you.”
“Yes, it is,” Thomas hissed, curling his hand on his thigh into a fist.
Scott backed down, not wanting a black eye. Three years together in Brixton Prison, and never once had Thomas raised a fist to him, even when their teasing got personal.
Scott swallowed, glancing down at Thomas’s hand.
Thomas unclenched it and opened his mouth, looking vaguely like he might apologise, but he didn’t.
“When we were inside, those three years felt so incredibly long,” Scott said. “But as soon as I got out and looked back on them, it felt like a flash of time, like it didn’t even happen.”
“It’s because nothing much did happen,” Thomas replied. “Think about it, the same mundane routine day after day, same place, mostly the same people. The mind doesn’t want to remember that. It deletes the boring parts of your life, and let’s be honest, most of prison life was a bore.”
Scott shrugged. “I didn’t mind some parts.”
“Name one thing you miss.”
Scott bit his lip, then answered, “When you’d sing.”
Thomas stiffened.
It was true, though. Scott missed Thomas’s singing.
He wasn’t a mediocre karaoke singer; Thomas had a strong operatic voice that had stunned the whole wing.
In the three years they’d been inside the prison together, he’d only sung five times, and the last time it had been Christmas.
Thomas had sung carols from the top landing.
There wasn’t a single inmate who wasn’t moved by his performance.
“You were amazing,” Scott whispered. “World class.”
“I remember you used to draw,” Thomas said, surprising Scott. “Not world class by anyone’s standards, but still pretty good.”
“I’ll take pretty good from you,” Scott said, smiling. “Have you kept the sketches I did?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Thomas snorted. “They went straight in the bin the same day I left.”
Scott forced down the flare of hurt and pulled off a dazzling smile.
Thomas eyed him. “You went straight back to this?”
“It’s a job,” Scott said. “And I’m good at it, so it seemed the obvious choice.”
“Did you make up with your sister?”
Scott kept calm – kept his expression beautifully blank. “We’re working on it.”
“Good… Maybe she can talk some sense into you over…this.” He gestured to Scott.
“Maybe,” Scott replied nonchalantly.
Thomas opened his mouth, about to say something else, but abruptly shut it when two men strode into view.
The harsh lines on Thomas’s forehead relaxed as he stared longingly at one of the men.
Scott took note. Never once during all their years in Brixton Prison had Thomas looked at another man like that, like he wanted to eat them up.
The man in question was skinny, mid-twenties at a guess.
He had piercings in his cheeks and nose, a green mullet haircut, and a leather jacket Scott could still smell after he’d passed them.
In one hand, he held a cigarette and in the other, a champagne flute.
The man glanced at Thomas, and his lips kicked up into a smug smile, then his gaze slid to Scott, and there was a questioning eyebrow lift.
“Who’s that?” Scott murmured once the man turned away.
Thomas’s snake tongue got wrapped up in the name. “Russell Cyril.”
He sounded like he was drooling.
Russell threw his empty champagne flute against the fountain, smirking as it broke before dropping into the pond beneath, then he launched his still burning cigarette at one of the hedges.
“What a dick…” Scott muttered.
“Hey,” Thomas warned. “Keep your snide comments to yourself.”
“For all you know, I was paying him a compliment.”
Thomas got up and went to find the cigarette. On his hands and knees, he took it into his mouth, taking a deep drag before stubbing it out.
“He’s such a delectable little brat.”
Scott rubbed his chin in thought. “I’d swap the word little for skinny, delectable for horrible, and brat for dick. Such a horrible skinny dick.”
“I bet you’re used to men saying that whenever you get undressed.”
Scott wrapped his arms around himself as he laughed. He laughed hard, and Thomas looked over at him, tilting his head. “Your laugh is worse than nails on a chalkboard,” he mumbled. “But it’s still the best thing about you.”
“There you are…”
Scott straightened at Anthony’s voice. He brushed his hair back into position and fixed a warm smile on his face as he got to his feet.
Anthony’s top lip and brow were both sweaty, but he smiled at Scott, keeping both hands hidden behind his back.
“I was looking for you,” Scott said. “Guess we must’ve been looking for each other.”
Anthony laughed uncomfortably. “Yes, both moving in the same direction, not quite catching a glimpse.”
“Oh please,” Thomas muttered. “This is painful.”
He got back to his feet and sighed down into the fountain at the broken champagne flute.
“Actually,” Anthony said, ducking his head, “I went to use the restroom, and on the way back, a lot came up that I just had to buy… I had to buy it for you.”
“It’s not a head, is it?” Scott asked.
Thomas’s laugh hissed out of him in pulses, and Scott tried to keep his professional mask intact, to not grin with pride at getting such a sound out of his ex-cellmate.
“No, not a head… But this…”
Anthony presented Scott with the black box he’d been hiding at his back. He opened the lid, revealing a blue velvet interior and a thick gold necklace. It had a yellow gemstone the size of a marble.
“Wow…” Scott blinked. “Anthony, I…”
“Can I put it on you?”
“Sure,” Scott said. He sat down on the bench again with his back straight, holding his hair up with one hand. It wasn’t strictly necessary – his hair was chin-length – but the sight of his throat put a hitch in Antony’s breathing.
Thomas reverted to glaring.
“Isn’t there somewhere you’ve got to be?” Scott growled through his teeth.
“I’m happy here,” Thomas said, crossing his arms.
Anthony’s fingers trembled as he put the necklace around Scott’s neck.
Scott released his hair, then turned to Anthony. “How does it look?”
Anthony tripped over his tongue, trying to come up with a reply, before finally nodding his approval.
“It doesn’t suit you,” Thomas said.
Scott ignored him. “You know I can’t accept it, right? I can wear it for today, but then –”
Anthony widened his eyes. “But it’s a gift.”
“Gold doesn’t suit your skin tone,” Thomas added, purely because he was an arsehole, Scott imagined.
“Yes, thank you, Thomas,” Scott said, waving him away, but Thomas stayed beside the fountain.
Scott touched the stone. It was heavy against the hollow of his throat. The whole necklace felt like it was pushing down on his shoulders. It was as thick as rope and cold against his skin. “I hope it wasn’t too expensive…”
Anthony couldn’t meet his eyes.
“And the yellow stone…” Thomas said. “It’s the same shade as the first piss of the day.”
Scott slapped his hand to his mouth, pretending to cover his gasp at such an obviously expensive gift, but in reality, he smothered his laugh. Thomas, although behaving like a prick, was an accurate one, nonetheless.
“Shall we go somewhere else?” Anthony asked.
Scott stood up. “That sounds like a great idea.”
“But what I hate most of all about that necklace,” Thomas continued, “is the lie you told Scott when you gave it to him…”
Anthony stiffened, and his eyes widened an extra millimetre, looking on the verge of falling out.
“What lie?” Scott asked.
“That wasn’t one of the lots today,” Thomas said, pointing an accusing finger at the necklace. “He didn’t get it at any auction here.”
“And how would you know?” Scott asked.
“Because I personally approved every item on sale today, and there was no piss-yellow necklace.”
Scott dragged his gaze from Thomas and planted it back onto a blushing Anthony. “You didn’t get this here?”
Anthony shook his head. “It…I got it elsewhere. Wanted you to have it. Wanted you to wear it.”
Scott frowned. “Why not just ask me to –” He froze, then spun back to face Thomas. “Wait, you picked every lot?”
“Yes.” Thomas’s nostrils flared. “My event. My grounds. My massive mansion, and no, I’m not overcompensating for the size of my manhood; we both know I’m well above average.”
“Opinions may vary on that front, but holy shit,” Scott murmured, looking back at the house. “You live here?”
“I do.” Thomas strode over to them. “Opinions do not vary.”
“Well…”
“I would say it was nice seeing you again, Scott, but it really wasn’t.
” Thomas glanced at Anthony. “And silver jewellery would’ve looked better on him, with a blue stone.
Not sapphire, though, it’s too harsh, but topaz.
That would’ve brought out Scott’s eyes. That would’ve suited him or pearls; he always struck me as a guy that could pull off pearls. ”
And with that, Thomas left.