chapter Three
New York City, April 2005
The faint light flickering from the floor lamp illuminated the otherwise darkened open-plan space. The windows were open as the sticky New York night air made the tenth-floor apartment hot and humid, blowing in a gentle breeze that ruffled the papers spread out on the black glass coffee table.
Seb sat on the edge of his couch, barefoot, in the black shorts and vest he’d worn to his latest gym session, strumming on his old acoustic guitar. He sang a few lines, stopped, wrote the new lyrics onto the sheet of music paper and started up again. It had been a while since he’d written any new songs, but the mood had hit him tonight so he planned to get something down before he lost his muse again. Four months in New York without regular access to his band mates, or anyone else from back home, had stifled his creativity. Maybe they’ve all forgotten me? Huh, title, perhaps?
A faint knock from his front door interrupted his flow and he huffed. Plucking the strings, he ignored the distraction by closing his eyes and singing louder. Regardless of any lack of invitation, the front door pushed open and Seb cursed under his breath that he hadn’t remembered to bolt the double lock. He wasn’t used to the whole NY apartment set-up yet. His front door at home had been impossible to open without the five different sets of keys. Not to mention the huge gate that had acted as a barrier to the outside world.
A bottle of Dom Perignon plonked onto the glass table with a sharp clunk, the beads of condensation sliding down the bottle to drip into small puddles on the surface. Seb regarded the visitor bold enough to enter his apartment uninvited. He wasn’t surprised.
“Sounding good, Mr. Saunders.” Stephen Coles slipped out of his suit jacket and threw it to drape over the black leather sofa. “I’ve missed your music.”
Stephen had bulked up, evident through the pristine designer suit that clung to his hulky frame. Being so far away from his wife and child back home had given him the opportunity to find other things to keep him amused in the city. Thankfully, Seb didn’t attend the same gym as him. That would be all too much in the grand scheme of things, especially as Seb needed to avoid the man outside work hours as much as he physically could. So whilst Stephen made use of the fully equipped gymnasium in the basement of their building, Seb had joined the one at NYU at the extra expense.
Stephen’s newly grown dark beard covered up the scar on his lip and made him appear older than his twenty-nine years. Seb hated it. But then he hated the man with every fibre of his being, so whatever the bloke did to his appearance would never have been a deal clincher.
Seb hugged the acoustic guitar to his chest, refusing to speak or even acknowledge Stephen’s presence. The ability to discourage the man’s incessant need to converse had become easier over the few months of settling into their new life. Seb waited in anticipation for the time that Lisbeth and the kid finally came out to join Stephen permanently and kept him farther away from Seb. He presumed Stephen was holding off on that until he couldn’t keep up the pretence that they had to wait until the business had a hefty turnover to support them all.
Stephen sauntered through his apartment as if he owned the place, rummaged around in his kitchen cupboards and brought back two champagne flutes. Dropping the glasses onto the table, he picked up the bottle and nestled the bottom against a bent knee.
“We signed off on the Kochetsky account.” Stephen unwrapped the gold foil and tossed it onto the table to unscrew the metal wiring. “Well done. You worked that family well. Thought it would be worth celebrating.”
The iconic pop and fizz erupted from the bottle as Stephen eased out the cork. Pouring the bubbling liquid into two angled glasses, he smiled and handed one across. Seb shook his head.
“You can play it to me if you like.” Stephen slipped into the seat beside Seb.
Seb brushed his thumb along the strings of his guitar, an echoed plunk emanating from the sound hole as he set it down beside him. He scraped the champagne glass from the table, gulped a hefty amount and the bubbles crawled up his nose to make him cough into a balled fist.
“Easy, tiger.” Stephen chuckled and rubbed soothing circles across Seb’s back.
“Get your hand off me.”
“It’s okay, Sparky. It’s just you and me here.”
“You call me that again and I’ll break your fucking neck.”
“Calm down, Sebastian. Just sing to me like you used to.” Stephen remained calm and his voice irritatingly smooth. Leaning back, he rested his hands behind his head, boring his dark eyes right into Seb’s soul.
“What do you get out of this?”
Stephen arched an eyebrow, then waved a hand to the champagne bottle. “I think it’s obvious.”
“You don’t need me anymore. You made it. You’re here. You got the six-figure salary and the director status. My father thinks the sun shines out of your arse. Why bother trying to get me to think the same?”
Stephen chuckled. “Maybe because I think the sun shines out of your arse.”
Seb narrowed his eyes, contemplating the meaning of that statement. Was there a declaration in there? Something Seb had craved for so long? To mean something, to someone. Had his charm offensive on the Konchetskys over the past couple of months paid off and he was finally being seen as something other than just a pawn in his father’s, and Stephen’s, games?
Stephen cocked his head, licking his lips. “I’d like to at least check, anyway. I mean, it’s been a while.”
Receiving his answer loud and clear, Seb stormed over to his bedroom and hurried into the discarded clothes on the floor. He returned to the living area dressed in jeans, his trusty converse trainers and buttoning up a red and black checked shirt over his vest. Rolling the sleeves to his elbows to display his multitude of tattoos, he didn’t honour Stephen with any further chitchat or pondering that the man may have more to him besides sex, money and status.
“Where are you going?” Stephen dipped forward, resting his forearms on his knees.
Seb grabbed the leather jacket draped over the kitchen counter and headed straight for the exit. “Out. To get laid by a real man.”
“Sebastian, come on!”
“The next time you touch me…” Seb yanked open the door. “I’ll make sure to show Lisbeth the old text messages on her next visit over.”
Stephen smiled. “I doubt you even still have them.”
Seb slammed the door shut behind him, drowning out the confident delivery in Stephen’s voice. Wanker.
He hadn’t needed the jacket—it was oddly humid in the city—but he flung it on anyway. Head down, he marched through the bustling streets of Tribeca, passing the illuminated billboards and cackling tourists to get to his destination—the place where he’d drowned many a sorrow in the past few months. He didn’t care for the Subway, nor a taxi. He wanted to lose himself among the crowd with his only company his shadow that paced the cobbled streets beside him in the low-setting sun.
Finding his bar of choice among the many options along Christopher Street, he rammed through the entrance of the Light House and forced his way through the sea of male bodies to reach the bar. Luckily, it being relatively late in the grand scheme of nights-out, the bar area wasn’t as crowded as the dance floor. At least this place played proper music; live music, piano recitals, that sort of thing, Seb knew having scouted many a gay bar since moving to this area of the city.
He took up a stool at the bar and an obscenely good-looking bartender—who couldn’t have found a tighter T-shirt without it being a second skin—leaned toward Seb. “What can I get you?”
“JD. Ice. Leave the bottle.” Seb had to shout over the thump of the bass. He shuffled free of his leather jacket and hung it on a discreet hook under the counter. The barman winked, raising his eyebrows in clear appreciation of the tattoos displayed on Seb’s arms.
After the tender offered the bottle and a glass, Seb handed over his credit card and swiped it to open a tab. This wouldn’t be his only drink purchase tonight. He sloshed the whisky over ice and downed it in one. Pouring out some more, he told himself to at least try and taste the second one. The ice tinkled against the sides as Seb swished the glass and caught sight of a man approaching him. Well-rehearsed on how to blank the come-ons by now, something made Seb lock eyes with the tall man now leaning his elbow on the counter beside him. It wasn’t who he had been expecting. Even if it had been, with the dotted line now signed, he didn’t have to plaster on the aching smile that he’d faked the last few times in here.
“That’s a lot of whisky.” The man smiled. “And I can’t help but notice you’re in here alone.”
Seb roamed his gaze over the tall, bulky frame that cast a shadow over him. The man was probably a bit over six feet. Much taller than him, anyway. Thick, tight muscles displayed through a thin plain charcoal Henley tucked over casual dark denim jeans and black dress shoes. His face was scrunched up, but honest and friendly enough. His ears stuck out, giving off a harmless vibe. But it wasn’t his looks that had caught Seb’s attention. It was the accent.
“You’re English,” Seb stated.
The man smiled, showing off slightly crooked teeth. Nothing ugly, just noticeable against the full pearly white mouths of the locals. “And so are you, it would seem.”
Taking another swig of whisky, Seb nodded in reply and suppressed the urge to ask the man to speak again. He downed the rest of his drink and the buzz rushed through his veins to cloud his mind. He filled the glass to the brim, not bothering with the ice this time. It watered it down too much, anyway. Feeling the stranger’s eyes still on him, Seb shifted in the stool.
“I guess that’s what this chemistry is between us then. I mean, it’s like we can’t stop the conversation flowing.”
Seb let out an involuntary laugh. That accent hit him in places that had been untouched for months. He tried to shake it off and not think about it, because if he did, he’d be crying like a motherfucking baby all over again and this wasn’t the sort of place you did that shit in.
The man stepped forward and held out his hand. “I’m Rich. Native English. Essex to be precise.”
Seb stared at the hand longer than was probably comfortable for Rich to be holding it out, then finally slipped it into his and shook.
“Sebastian,” he replied. “London. Kensington to be precise.”
* * * *
Seb awoke with a mouth so dry he thought he’d eaten sandpaper. He wiggled his tongue around and widened his mouth to create some flow of saliva, but it just made him taste the bitter, stale alcohol residue and his stomach churned. Stretching out, he slipped his arms free from the silky black sheets, and grabbed his painfully pounding head. Noah might as well be rocking out a beat on his skull. Only then did he realise he wasn’t waking up in his own bed. Nor did he have any clothes on.
Shit.
He slid his head to the side, taking care to not disturb the strange bedfellow radiating heat next to him. Thankfully, the man slept. Sprawled out on his front, one arm draped over Seb’s midsection. Seb closed his eyes. Well, fuck. Not only had he screwed up his plan to remain free of casual hook-ups, despite the lies he told Stephen daily about his trail of sex in the city, but he also had no clue as to the name of the man who’d blown all that to hell. He just hoped to God they’d used protection, so he could at least maintain some level of exclusivity to the man he thought about. Every. Single. Day.
Seb shuffled away, the arm falling from his stomach, and he slipped out of the bed in his best attempt not to create any real movement. Searching the cluttered floor for his clothing, he winced. He ached and he hurt. Pulling on his boxers, his back to the bed, a quiet, painful groan emanated from his throat and he immediately cursed on hearing the faint mumble from behind him.
“Morning.” The man stretched out his lean and muscular body.
“Sorry, I need to get going. Work.” Every word Seb muttered threatened to spill out as pure vomit.
“On a Saturday?”
Seb only managed a nod without regurgitating the entire bottle of Jack Daniel’s he’d quite clearly consumed last night.
“No worries.” Throwing the sheets off, the man jumped out of the bed.
No question there, then, who had been what last night. Seb turned away as the man, completely naked, walked toward him. He didn’t want to look. It wasn’t because it was a bad sight. Far from it. The man certainly owned a body to be proud of. It was just that it was a body unfamiliar to Seb and he feared that by allowing himself to indulge, it would dampen his memory of the body he consistently hungered for.
“Got time for a coffee? Or I got real proper tea. PG Tips.” The man grinned with a hint of humorous bragging whilst pulling clothes out from various drawers and shoving them on.
“You’re English.”
The man laughed. “Yeah, you said that last night.”
“Sorry.” Seb fastened the buttons on his shirt with unease. “Guess I was more blotto than I thought. I haven’t done this in a really long time.”
“Yeah, you said that a lot last night, too. Listen, don’t sweat it. Two people having a good time, right? Well, least I can remember it being a good time, anyway.”
Finding his trainers, Seb slipped his feet into them and bent down to tuck the loose laces into the sides. As he stood, the room span and he almost collapsed onto the bed.
“Whoa there.” Grabbing Seb’s elbow, the man steadied him. “You sure you’re all right to go to work like this?”
Seb shrugged away. He didn’t want to come across as rude, never knowing how someone might react in a strange environment, but neither did he want to give off any signals that may be interpreted as something other than this being a complete one-off.
“I’m fine. But yeah, maybe a coffee would be good right about now.” Seb edged away and racked his mashed mind for the name that belonged to the stranger whose bed he’d just emerged from.
“All right. Listen, how about I go one better? I own the joint around the corner. Bar by night, café by day sort of place. Rocko, the chef, will be in and he knocks up a mean full English. Grease, fat and meat. Perfect for the hangover, right?”
It was probably a good idea to get some food and coffee in him before even attempting to ride the Subway feeling the way he did. Plus he wasn’t even sure where abouts in the whole fucking city he was. So at least this way he could scope out his location without admitting how much he really couldn’t remember about last night.
The man opened the bedroom door, then paused. “Rich, by the way. Just in case.”
Seb snorted, but nodded a grateful thanks and trailed out of the room.
Moore’s resided a few blocks along from Rich’s apartment building. Apparently the place was a quintessential English café by day, serving tea, scones and crumpets, and transformed into an East End sports bar by night, catering for the more ruffian of clientele. At least on passing by the brightly coloured building blocks that drilled a hole through Seb’s pounding brain without him having his usual dark shades to mask it, he was able to figure out that he was still in the vibrant Greenwich Village area of New York City at least.
Rich led Seb in the side staff entrance and through the back into the main café floor. The large-screen TVs plastered around the room were all set to sports channels. Seb had a sudden realisation he’d been here before. Small world, even smaller city.
Pulling out two stools at the front of the bar, Rich slapped his hand down on the counter. “Two fulls, Rocko,” he bellowed through the open kitchen ledge. “And switch it to the game while you’re there.”
Unsure whether he was supposed to be impressed or not, Seb slipped out of his jacket. The hangover sweats were kicking in and he couldn’t be bothered pretending to stroke the man’s ego by offering a reply.
A pot of coffee was plonked down in front of them by a waitress, along with two mugs emblazoned with London tube station symbols.
“Nice.” Seb meant the mugs, but Rich could take it any way he wanted.
“Thanks.” Rich poured out the coffee. “I moved to New York five years ago. Couldn’t find a place where I could get a decent brekkie with HP sauce and watch the premiership games in real time. So I opened this place. It’s been a slow burn, but I got there.” Slurping from his Oxford Street mug, he raised his eyebrows. “What brought you to the city that never sleeps, anyway?”
“Working for my father. He expanded his business over here. Been nearly five months. We’re doing okay.” He took a sip of coffee that coursed through his veins and poked at his mind.
“Wicked. What’s the business?”
“Saunders & Son.” Seb yawned into a balled fist. “Property development.”
“No fucking way?” Rich slammed his mug down. “Heard about that. Got all the contracts for luxury builds.” He whistled. “Nice hefty salary you get, then?”
Seb shrugged.
“So, you like it here?”
Seb shrugged.
Rich chuckled. “That good, huh?”
“This isn’t where I hoped I would be, that’s all.” Understatement. But that was all Seb was willing to say.
“Ah yes.” Rich nodded, scraping his bottom lip. “You mentioned that last night, too. You’re a musician. That’s where your talents lie. As well as other places, I might add now with a hint of experience.” He nudged Seb’s arm, making him slosh the coffee from the mug.
Without rolling his eyes that would no doubt bang through his temple, Seb wiped up the spilled coffee with his napkin.
“You mentioned an ex as well last night. In case you don’t remember that, either.”
Seb’s chest tightened. “What did I say?”
“The usual shit. You’re not over him. Love of your life. Yadda, yadda, yadda. You also called me his name a few times.”
Seb dropped his shoulders. How this bloke had wanted to sleep with him after the complete self-pity fest he must have endured from Seb last night was anyone’s guess.
“Been there, mate. It’s a tough road, but you will get over it. No one’s perfect and all that.”
Seb inhaled a lungful of stagnant air, scratching the table surface with his black-varnished thumbnail. Two plates of full English breakfast slopped down on the counter in front of them and Rich covered his in salt and sloshed HP sauce all over it. Seb hadn’t consumed a breakfast like this in months. In fact, the last time he could remember indulging in something so covered in grease was back at university. He could still recount the number of calories that lay in such a hearty breakfast.
“Eat up.” Rich chewed, nodding to the plate. “That will make you feel human again.”
Seb pushed the food around the plate as the volume from the TV screens increased, bleeding into his skull.
“Match starting, boss!” a loud voice from inside the kitchen hollered.
“Oh, you’ll have to excuse me now.” Rich shuffled in his seat and pointed to the plasma screen with his fork. “My team are coming on, last game of the season, and we’ve been playing a bit shit but the manager just signed this random and he’s sitting on the bench.” Rich swallowed down the mouthful bulging in his cheeks. “Hoping they’ll play him, as rumour has it, he’s a bit of a mean striker. You into football, Seb?”
“Not so much anymore.” Seb scraped a piece of sausage from his fork. His stomach churned, and he thought about shoving the whole lot away, but realised that might be a tad rude and so popped the meat into his mouth. “Who’s your team anyway?” At least talking prevented his need to regurgitate the contents swishing in his stomach.
“I’m an Essex lad, ain’t I?” Rich grinned. “Irons through and through, mate. West Ham.”
Seb whipped his head around far too fast not to feel the continued spinning.
“What? You a blue or something? Kensington, weren’t it? Don’t tell you you’re Chelsea? ‘Cause this might not work out, y’know.”
Seb couldn’t speak. Nor could he tear his eyes from the television.
“Here he is.” Rich shovelled in more of the breakfast and waved his fork.
The TV shot to images of a football team warming up on a pitch. The commentators chatted routinely about how West Ham United’s new signing was a true East End lad come up from the grassroots of English football. Seb choked on the coffee he’d taken a sip of. Laying eyes on the close-up of the ever-familiar blond man running and jumping through his warmup paces, Seb swallowed and his heart leapt into his throat to join the stubborn sausage.
“He’s a bit of all right, him.” Rich leaned back in his stool.
The TV stayed focused on the new player bending at the waist, legs crossed over one other, hands on his hips, performing a hamstring stretch.
Rich whistled. “Yeah. I’d definitely tap that.”
“Watch your fucking mouth,” Seb grunted, before he could stop himself.
“Easy fella. Was just admiring. What the shit’s up with you?”
Seb shook his head and sipped from his coffee to avoid any further outburst, head hung low but still focused on the TV screen ahead.
“And this is the new signing,” the commentator rattled out from the surround-sound speakers, tearing a hole through Seb’s already pounding brain. “Number nine. Ruttman. Jay Ruttman. Think they’ll play him today, Jamie?”
The suited man on the screen continued spouting through statistics, tactics and drawing white lines across the mock-up pitch indicating where West Ham could get themselves to score.
“Jay Ruttman,” Rich repeated. “Jay? That ain’t your Jay?”
Seb inhaled, glancing away from Rich’s painful stare.
“Bloody fucking Nora!” Rich laughed. “He’s gay? A real, gay premiership footballer? And you’ve had him?” Rich pressed a forefinger onto Seb’s chest making him wobble on the stool. “You fucking lucky bastard.”
Seb hung his head, closing his eyes from the fallout of Rich’s words. They were right, and they stung like a bitch. Seb had been lucky to have had Jay. But then he left him. You fucking stupid bastard.