Men of London 03 - Suit Yourself (20 page)

Leslie’s eyebrows lifted. Maybe the
endearment meant he wasn’t in trouble.

Laverne looked at him from beneath strong
brows. “How are you doing?”

“In what way?” Leslie was puzzled.

Laverne sighed. “Leslie, since Oliver broke
up with you, you’ve been a little distracted. Nothing affecting
your work,” she forestalled Leslie’s panicked denial, “but I’ve
noticed you’re not your usual bubbly self. I know this is normal,
of course, all things considered.” She frowned as noise from the
building site next door threatened to drown her out. “Those boys
need to keep it down a bit. They’ve been really noisy today for
some reason.”

She leaned forward. “I’ve been concerned
about you and just wanted to check in.”

Leslie looked down at his shoes. “I’m okay,”
he muttered. “Getting over it.”

In fact, nothing could be further from the
truth. His heart was still raw from Oliver’s rejection. Leslie had
hoped that he would hear from him, and he hadn’t been proud enough
to keep from sending a few texts asking Oliver if they could talk.
He’d gotten one terse text back.

It’s over. Please stop
contacting me.

After that, he’d fallen apart and realised
that it really was over and Oliver didn’t want him anymore. Taylor
had been there to pick up the pieces, wipe up the tears that fell
copiously from Leslie’s eyes and tell him fiercely that he was
going to go over to Oliver’s and kick his arse. Leslie had managed
to convince Taylor that Oliver wasn’t to be touched, but he wasn’t
so sure about convincing Draven.

Taylor’s man had got this gimlet-eyed look as
if was about to take out a hit on someone. He’d gruffly patted
Leslie’s head like a puppy and told him that Oliver was a complete
arsehole letting someone like Leslie get away, and that in his
future there might be some
payback
.

Leslie had shivered at the way he’d said that
and hastily asked Taylor to please tell Draven not to interfere.
The last thing he wanted to read in the news that an ex-porn star
recluse had been found beaten or tortured in his house.

“No you’re not.” Laverne stood up, focused
Leslie back to the present, and came over to him, pulling him to
his feet. “Come here. You need a hug.”

Leslie was enveloped in strong arms and it
was all he could do not to cry at such concern. Instead he closed
his eyes, breathed in Laverne’s perfume and revelled in the firmly
muscled chest under which a strong heart beat. Laverne might be
woman on the outside but underneath that person was all man.

Finally Laverne released him and watched with
kind eyes. “You’re a tough little bugger, Leslie. You’ll get over
this.” She grinned. “Maybe it’s time to take that sexy Frankie up
on his offer. God knows if I was a bit younger, I’d want to tap
that.”

Leslie sniffed. “Maybe I will. He called me
yesterday actually, asking me to go with him to a rock concert. As
a date, not a friend. I might…”

There was a mighty roar outside and the
building shuddered. Leslie yelled in panic and grasped Laverne’s
arm. “My God, what was that?”

Outside, there was the sound of people
screaming and crying and both of them dashed over to the window.
Leslie’s throat clenched as he observed the carnage outside. The
scaffolding from the renovations next door had crumbled to the
ground, lying in the street in a tumble of concrete, wood and
metal. People ran around, trying to get to the injured obviously
trapped under the debris. In the distance already there was the
sound of sirens.

“Oh, Christ.” Laverne’s face was white.
“Leslie. Get all the staff rounded up to help.” She moved away from
the window. “Anybody who can render assistance should come
downstairs and give us a hand to get those people out from under
that wreckage. And if anyone mentions they can’t because of bloody
health and safety, tell them they’re fired.”

Leslie nodded frantically. He didn’t really
think you could fire people for observing the safety laws, but
Laverne was a law unto herself. He followed her as she rushed from
the room.

What about Frankie?
he wondered helplessly. He might be buried under there, hurt, even
dead. Leslie swallowed as he darted around the office mustering the
Debussy troops.

“Please be okay, Frankie,” he whispered to
himself. “I need you to be safe.”

* * *

Oliver sat flicking the channels on his
remote control. He didn’t really see what he was looking at. His
mind was still too crowded with blue eyes filled with devastation
and a face that had etched itself into his painful memories. The
words
I
love
you
still circled in his brain like hungry
sharks, slashing at his thoughts, drawing blood.

If it was the right thing
to do, why do I feel like shit?

For the thousandth time, he wondered what
Leslie was doing now. Was he with Frankie, with a man who could
laugh and take him places without falling apart? Had he moved on
already, or was he too like Oliver, pitiable, useless, reduced to
takeout food and alcohol to take the pain away? Oliver hoped not.
That hadn’t been his intention. One pathetic arsehole was
enough.

He threw the remote down next to him on the
couch, and pressed himself tighter into the corner of the
cushions.

Why?
he asked
himself, second-guessing his decision to cut Leslie free.
Did you make the right decision? Or were you just
overreacting to that bastard Gregori and his damning words about
being a nothing, just a hole to fill? Did you just send away the
best thing to ever happen to you?

He stared at the television, seeing the
pictures flash across it of some building or other that had
collapsed but not really caring. It was only when he heard the
words
London
and
Debussy’s
that he started to pay attention. He frowned
and picked up the remote to turn up the volume.

“To repeat, earlier this morning, building
scaffolding collapsed in Diamond Street, Hackney.” The presenter’s
voice was subdued. “At this moment it is not known how many people
are injured, but we do know that there have been two fatalities.”
The camera focused on a scene far away and then zoomed in. “It has
affected local businesses in the area, notably the fashion house,
Debussy’s, and well-known auctioneer Raymond Powell’s. The local
cafe below was also a popular gathering place for workers in the
area. At this time it is not known whether any of these staff were
involved in the accident.”

Bile rushed up Oliver’s throat. He could make
out a hand covered by a tarpaulin. From underneath, he saw only the
top of a head, a head covered in black hair just like Leslie’s. He
stood up, shaking, the blood rushing from his head, pooling in his
stomach; his skin rose in goose bumps and he had to take deep
breaths to centre himself.

“Oh my God, Leslie,” he whispered, his heart
clenching. The sick feeling in his stomach increased. His mind
blanked out and for a moment, he couldn’t breathe.

“The emergency services were on the scene
quickly and the injured are still being moved to the local
hospital. Rescue teams are attempting to locate people who may
still be buried under the rubble.” The presenter turned and waved
at the scene behind her. “As you can see, they have help from many
of the local businesses that have come out to assist the rescue
team in moving the debris. At present, there is no explanation for
the collapse but some of the construction crew have said it
appeared to be a faulty building pillar that was weakened by recent
drilling activity. I understand the reason for the tragedy still
remains to be investigated and we will bring you more news as we
have it.”

The television reverted to the in-studio team
on the news and Oliver stood, swaying slightly. A feeling of dread
coursed through his body and he knew he had to get down there. Find
out whether Leslie was safe. With trembling fingers, he dialled
Leslie’s mobile.

“Please answer,” he prayed fervently.
“Please, Leslie, answer.”

The ringing tone in his ears mocked his
distress and he cut the call off as it went to voicemail. He wasted
no more time. He rushed to the bedroom, threw on jeans and a
sweatshirt and ran out of the house. Flagging down a taxi and
clambering in with instructions to take him to Diamond Street, he
tried calling Leslie again. There was still no reply.

“You do know that place is a mess, right?”
the taxi driver told him, catching his eye in the rear view mirror.
“A bloody building collapsed. I might not be able to get you too
close.”

“That’s fine,” Oliver said distractedly as he
called Leslie again. “Just get as close as you can. I have a friend
there who might be hurt.”

Or worse.

“A’right mate. I’ll get you there. Hold on.
This could be a bumpy ride.” The vehicle swung out into the busy
traffic and Oliver sat back, palms sweating, hands trembling,
hoping to all the gods and fates in the universe that there was
still time to make things right with the man he loved.

It took almost ninety minutes to even get
close to the accident site. The distance was only about six miles
but the traffic was horrendous. The driver, Emmett, kept up a
running commentary about the vagaries of the London roads and
transport system and more than once, Oliver thought he would get
out and run the rest of the way. Emmett was always optimistic,
saying they’d be there soon, but by the time they hit gridlock
again not far away, Oliver was beside himself. There was still no
reply from Leslie. The business phone was busy, and he hadn’t
anybody else’s personal contact numbers.

When the taxi stopped once more behind a
stream of exhaust-spewing, stationary traffic, Oliver could bear it
no longer. He fumbled in his wallet for the money he owed and
tucked it between the windows of the front of the cab.

“I have to get there,” he said desperately as
Emmett’s eyes widened. “Thanks for the ride.”

He checked; there were no bikes or
motorcycles coming past, opened the door and leapt out into the
street. His feet hit the pavement and he began running. A steady
jog, nothing fast, but he knew that every step he took brought him
closer to Leslie. Luckily Oliver was fit; his own little home gym
was paying dividends. His hair bounced and bobbed around his face
as he ran but the state of his face and that fucking scar meant
nothing, absolutely nothing compared to what might have happened.
The only thing on his mind was saying sorry to a man with hair as
black as coal and begging him to give him a second chance.

If he wasn’t too late.

Finally, Oliver saw the crowd in the
distance, and he sped up. The area looked as if it was still being
cordoned off, and Oliver hoped he wouldn’t be stopped by the rescue
services or police. He thought grimly that there was no way in hell
they were stopping him finding Leslie. He’d fight to the death if
he had to.

Panting, he stopped on the outskirts of the
carnage and stared around in horror. The quaint building of
Debussy’s appeared intact but the site next to it was a wreck. It
was a low building, probably three storeys high and while most of
it was still standing, the left-hand side was ripped open. Plaster
and beams hung down, metal poles dangled thirty feet off the
ground, and long wooden struts lay smashed to splinters on the
pavement.

Men and women in high-visibility jackets,
police and paramedics, surrounded the scene in well-organised
chaos. Everywhere Oliver looked, there were people moving planks,
struts and pieces of concrete. Several cars were dented and
squashed and the glass front of the little coffee shop where Leslie
often bought his coffee was smashed to shards.

Oliver ran over to the front entrance of
Debussy’s, chest heaving. The door was locked and he had no idea
whether anyone still remained inside. He hoped that it was the
case.

A woman standing smoking saw him pulling at
the door. She shook her head. “Everyone’s out helping,” she told
him. “The guys locked the door so they didn’t get looted while they
cleaned up. You know what some people are like.” Her eyes conveyed
disgust as such a scenario.

Oliver stared at her blankly. “Were there any
casualties from this place, do you know?” he waved at Debussy’s.
“Anyone get hurt?”

She shrugged and took another drag of her
cigarette. “Don’t know.”

He turned and moved forward as if in a dream,
eyes anxiously searching for the form of his boyfriend. The area
was taped off and people milled behind the barriers, watching the
events unfold. No one stopped him as he slipped through the
bollards across the street and pavements. They all seemed to be
occupied in the area outside the coffee shop. He’d been lucky.

Oliver moved through the frenetic activity.
“Leslie,” he shouted. “Leslie Scott!” His shouts brought him no
response other than agonised glances as people spattered with blood
and dust moved around the site. Once or twice he thought he saw the
slim form of his lover and his heart raced in anticipation, but
when he got there, he was disappointed.

He got closer to the coffee shop and saw a
pile of planks and metal beams with half a dozen people standing
around the heap. Desperately he grasped the nearest person, a
broad-shouldered man coated in dust.

“Have you seen a man called Leslie? Slim,
black hair, blue eyes? I really need to find him.”

“Mate.” The man’s voice was quiet. “He’s over
there.” He motioned to the rubble and Oliver’s whole being went
cold. The man realised his mistake and his eyes widened.

“No,
he’s
okay. It’s
his friend…” The man’s voice tailed off. “He won’t leave him. We’re
waiting for the paramedics; they should be here anytime soon.”