Chapter Twenty-Four
Twenty four
Asher
Ispend the rest of Sunday in a sort of panicked catatonia.
The London Times has pictures of us together.
Or was it The Sunday Times? Why didn’t I write it down?
Stephen Gardiner. That was his name, I remember that much, but when I Googled it, I couldn’t find any Stephen Gardiner, but I did discover The London Times wasn’t a paper. So it was The Sunday Times.
Everything in me wants to call Christian.
He’d know what to do, how to handle this, and fucking hell, he needs to know.
This had already happened to him, just before he’d come here; the ballet dancer had been some important guy’s son and that had landed him here in a job he hated. Now it was happening again.
I’m not really anybody’s son anymore, and neither am I important, but what I do for work certainly is—and put together with what he does for a job?
Fuck. It could absolutely ruin him. Which is almost kinda funny because the first night he’d come to my place, black eyes and a hard dick, he’d said that to me, and I’d worn it like a badge of honour.
He’d been scared to do this with me, and I’d invited him to Jersey City to watch a live fucking porn show, and he’d been papped.
Before that, I was at his house… before that, I’d sneaked into his hospital room.
He’s going to end this the moment he finds out about the photo, and I can’t blame him for it.
I love him, and he can’t be with me, and it’s not even the worst thing about this. People thinking he paid me for sex is.
I need to talk to him.
I check the world clock on my phone. It’s almost 11pm in London.
He’d said he was having dinner with a friend tonight, so maybe he’d still be awake, though when I try his number, it rings out and goes to voicemail.
I don’t want to do this over a voicemail, but I also don’t want to hang up once it beeps, so I ramble some nonsense.
“Um, hey. It’s me. Obviously. Hope your dinner was good.
Um, I just… wanted to say hi. I’m going to head out to the gym for a bit right now, so if you’re still awake and wanna give me a call back, I should be out in about an hour.
But, like, tomorrow is fine, too. If you have time. So, yeah. Okay. Speak soon. Bye.”
It’s only when I’m leaving the building to go to the gym that it occurs to me Stephen Gardiner of The Sunday Times might still be outside in his car.
A quick glance around tells me that he isn’t, so I toss my bag into the back seat and climb in and pull out into traffic, watching the rearview for a burgundy rental.
My phone starts ringing before I pull into the gym parking lot, but a glance down at the screen tells me it’s Leah, not Christian, and since I can’t imagine anything she has to say will be urgent, it can wait until later.
At the gym, I keep the screen of my phone facing me as I run on the treadmill: 5k, then 10, and then 15, tension leeching off my bones to be replaced with exhaustion. Christian doesn’t call me back.
On the way home, I stop at the grocery store to buy some sugary snacks, which I open before I even get back to the car.
Should I call Cole? Ask him not to speak to some guy called Stephen, who may or may not reach out to him to ask about last weekend.
Surely that would only make him ask questions?
Questions I haven’t a clue how to answer because no one can know who Christian is.
For the first time, it occurs to me that Christian is a fucking idiot for messing around with me like this.
He’s even more of an idiot for coming to Jersey with me and watching me get fucked.
What was he thinking? It would have been so easy for someone intent on getting dirt on him to follow him from his house all the way to the hotel in Jersey City.
In fact, someone could have been doing that for the last couple months.
Then it hits me: is that a part of this for him?
The risk of getting caught? Before me, it had been this very important guy’s son.
It’s like he wants to get caught. Maybe he does.
Because he must know what it will look like if this gets out.
Strait-laced and professional at work, polished and primed for the top tier of the British government, who in private slums it with guys half his age.
It has to be part of the attraction for him since we have next to nothing in common.
I’m not exactly the sort of partner a guy like him could bring to work events.
But when we are together, it doesn’t feel like we are poles apart.
Our connection feels strong and deep, and while initially it was about physical attraction, that only feels like part of the story now.
I like how he makes me feel, safe and calm, cared for and cherished.
I know people probably wouldn’t think that to look at us, but it’s more than sex—fuck, we haven’t even slept together.
It’s more than sex. It’s real. We are real.
Not for the first time, it makes me curious about his wife, the great and lasting love of his life.
What they had together, and how he feels about her, is overwhelming sometimes to contend with, and I just…
I want to know what she was like, even just so I can understand Christian a little better.
I’m not sure that even makes sense, and I’d sworn never to do it, but my leg is bouncing so hard that the entire car is shaking, and I’ve eaten two full packets of peanut M I don’t want you to be…
” I’ve not taken a breath, and then Christian is on me and pulling me into his arms.
“It’s alright, calm down,” he says calmly. He’s so fucking warm, and his chest rumbles as he talks to me in a low, steady voice. “You’re trembling, darling.”
I pull my head up to look at him, confused.
“Didn’t you hear what I said? They have photos, Christian, of us leaving the fucking hotel!”
“Yes, sweetheart, I know they do.”
“Y-you… know?”
He takes a small step back and takes my hand instead. “Come and sit down and have breakfast with me,” he says in that same, steady voice. He picks up the bag and tugs me with him into the kitchen, where he releases my hand and goes to get plates.