Men of London 03 - Suit Yourself (3 page)

“What?” He sighed resignedly. “What do you
need?”

Laverne’s handsome, square-jawed face beamed
at him from under a wig of silver-blonde thick hair and Leslie
thought not for the first time that Lenny made rather a lovely
woman. Tall, broad-shouldered, statuesque, and beautifully dressed
no matter what, Laverne was a force to be reckoned with and Leslie
would do anything for her.

“Well, this must be divine intervention.”
Laverne prowled her way across to Leslie, who took a deep breath.
More than once he’d been embraced between the twin peaks that made
up Laverne’s chest and every time had been a pretty suffocating
experience. However, this time he was given a reprieve.

“The client called and said Monday was no
longer good for him, so could I please see whether I could get
anyone out there today. I was going to call Charlie and see if he
could do it, but now you’re here in person, my sweet lad, I rather
think Mr. Brown can be all yours.”

Leslie raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow.
“Really? His name is Oliver Brown? That’s pretty bleh. I think I’d
die from self-boredom with a name like that.” He was relieved at
the extent of the favour though. It sounded innocuous enough.

Laverne frowned. “Now, now, don’t be a bitch.
I mean, what’s so great about the name Leslie Scott?”

Leslie spluttered. “Leslie
Tiberius
Scott, if you please.”

Laverne stared at him then broke out into
great guffaws of laughter that definitely made her the man she was
beneath the armour. “Oh my God, Leslie, my little chicken.
Tiberius? That is not a name I would associate with a gorgeous
Tinkerbell like you. The name Tiberius conjures up hunky Captain
James T. Kirk.” She licked her lips lasciviously.

Leslie wanted to swear and tell Laverne he
was not Tinkerbell, but this was Laverne. And she
had
said gorgeous. Instead, he clenched his teeth and
took the comment on the chin.

“Well, at least it’s pretty unusual. Not like
Oliver Brown.”

Laverne must have picked up on the slight
hurt in his voice because she sailed over to him and enveloped him
in her bosom. It looked like Leslie wasn’t getting off scot free
tonight.

“Leslie. When I call you Tinkerbell, I mean
that I see beauty, grace, and a warm-hearted, beautiful soul. I see
big blue eyes, pale skin and black hair that’d make a man’s heart
melt. I don’t see a man who is a fairy, or unable to stand up for
himself. You, Leslie Tiberius Scott, are a wonderful human being
and that’s why I call you Tinkerbell.”

Somewhat mollified, Leslie managed to
extricate himself from Laverne’s clutches. His hair was mussed from
being held so close, but for once, he didn’t mind the unruly state
of it.

“Well, that’s okay then. It’s just everyone
thinks I’m this slim twink who can’t say boo to a goose, and I
promise you, I have my moments.” He recalled one moment fondly when
he’d attacked a man while wearing his high heels then proceeded to
bash said dickhead with the end of them. Eddie had been the
unfortunate victim that night of the man’s unwelcome advances, but
between them, Leslie and Taylor had saved the day.

“I have no doubt of that.” Lavern’s lips
twitched as if holding back a smile and then she was back to
business. “So, you’ll take Mr. Brown’s suit to him then, this
afternoon? You can take the car. It’s not too far away and I think
he said he had off-road parking.” She waggled a large finger at
him. “Mr. Brown is my best customer. You treat him right.” She
winked. “And I’m really interested to know what the man behind the
sexy voice looks like. I’ve never met him myself.”

Leslie sighed. He and the thong could do
this. “Fine. I’ll be on my best behaviour, I promise. Let me get
the suit from the Arbour and I’ll load it in the car.” He looked at
her hopefully. “I want to change, too.” He looked down at his glad
rags. “These aren’t particularly
suitable
for delivering a suit.” He snorted at his own wit.

Laverne rolled her eyes. “There are some spec
suits in the back, change into one of those. I’ve no doubt I’ll
ever see it again.” Spec or specimen suits were ones that Laverne
had made but were deigned not good enough for sale even though in
Leslie’s eyes they were perfect.

Leslie batted his eyelashes. “You mean I get
to keep it? Oh, Laverne. You doll. I don’t suppose you have spare
underwear anywhere, do you?” He wriggled uncomfortably. “This damn
string is chafing my backside.”

Laverne shook her head. “No, sweets, I don’t
have any Andrew Christians or fancy thongs lying around. You’ll
either have to go commando or wear the one you have on. Now be off
with you, urchin. Post haste. The Arbour awaits.”

The Arbour was the room where all the suits
that were already made were stored. It was nothing more than a very
large, high-ceilinged and airy room with rails and hangers around
the walls and a large olive tree in the centre, hence the name.
Laverne was fond of olive trees and this one was close to eight
feet, set into glistening white pebbles in an enclosure set into
the laminated floor. It was looked after as if it were a precious
baby. They’d even held office picnics around its spreading
branches.

“I hope the car has petrol,” Leslie grumbled
as he turned the knob to go out to the door, forgetting he’d locked
it. He turned the key impatiently and yanked the door open.

“It’s all fuelled up,” Laverne promised.
“Thank you, Leslie, I owe you one. Be careful how you go now and
bring the car back safely.” Her tone held a warning. The last time
Leslie had used a company asset he’d put the wrong fuel in it and
had to call out the Automobile Association to rescue him. The cost
had not gone down well with the rather tight-fisted Laverne.

It was on the tip of Leslie’s tongue to say
he’d take payment of some French lace in return for having his
Saturday afternoon stuffed up, but he thought the better of it.
He’d have a look in the bin when he brought the car back later and
hopefully by then he’d be alone to rummage. Rather let Laverne
think she had a debt to pay. Perhaps he could get a Friday off
sometime soon and go to Brighton for the weekend. He had a good
friend down there who’d be happy to take him out on the town.

Laverne’s voice interrupted his musings.

“Text me when you’re done and let you know
you’ve made it out of the house alive. I mean, you never know, he
might decide to keep you. I would.”

At first, Leslie felt a twinge of unease at
that thought; then random images of being tied up like an
old-school heroine and ravaged by a handsome stranger flitted
through his mind.

Hmm, actually that doesn’t
sound so bad.

Agreeing that he would text Laverne when he
was done, and happy he had something to do this afternoon instead
of being home alone (and how sad was that), Leslie whistled as he
strutted down the corridor to the Arbour, keeping an anxious eye
out for pervy Adrian.

He’d go and see the boringly named Mr. Brown,
deliver his suit and then—who knew. Perhaps he’d take himself off
to a club tonight and dance the night away. He might even meet
someone and go home or be taken home for some heart-stopping,
sweaty sex. Of course, waking up with the man tomorrow still in his
bed would be a bonus. Cuddling was one of Leslie’s favourite
pastimes and he didn’t get to do it often enough.

He changed into a rather nifty suit and a
tailored shirt, and grimaced at the fact he’d have to keep the
thong on. He wasn’t visiting a customer with his balls hanging out.
He found himself a pair of much more comfortable and more
respectable shoes to wear; they just happened to be a pair of
Armani Loafers.

He whistled as he put them on. His Choos and
the rest of his own outfit were popped in a bag and held close, not
wanting to let them out of his sight. He grinned when he remembered
his boss’s comment about not getting it back. She knew him so well.
Some of his best outfits were ‘borrowed.’

Chapter 3

The customer’s house resided in a cul-de-sac in the
middle of the respectable area of Waterloo. Bare-branched trees
jutted starkly up from the pavement, which framed clusters of
bungalows and double-storey houses set back from the road. They all
appeared to have the requisite postage stamp front gardens.

Leslie parked on the wide kerb—a real bonus
in his book as he was used to parking on busy streets with double
yellow lines (and getting tickets)—unfolded his legs out of the
little red Ford Ka he’d borrowed from work, and stood to observe
the place with a jaded eye.

It was a seemingly palatial but grubby
white-painted house with an ornate wooden front door, which was set
with a bevelled paned glass window. A weed-strewn driveway led up
to the house, and the gardens surrounding the place looked
overgrown and unloved. In its heyday, it must have been quite
something. Now, in its current state, even the house seemed to
match the name ‘Brown.’ Ordinary, boring and
so
totally lacking in originality. A tickle of guilt
passed through his slender frame as he thought perhaps Eddie and
Taylor might have a point when they called him a snob. He shook
that off with the thought that
he
still
preferred to say he had high standards.

He felt a twinge of sympathy for the poor,
neglected camellia valiantly fighting its way up from what looked
like a clump of thistles. He was rather partial to camellias,
having once had an older lover who’d filled a bathtub with the pink
blooms and champagne and seduced Leslie into it with one sexy strip
of his clothing and a promise of an earth-shattering blowjob. Said
lover was now deceased, unfortunately, having had a heart attack
when his wife confronted him with the evidence of his various
off-piste
affairs with young men. However,
Leslie still thought fondly of Ralphie at moments like these.

He tut-tutted as he opened his boot and
removed the enclosed grey suit, giving it a loving caress as he
folded it gently over his left forearm.

“There we go, sweetie. I’m not sure why
someone who lives in an unkempt house like this needs a suit like
you. You’re far too lovely for a place like this. I hope he takes
care of you.”

He picked up his leather business folder and
secured it under his other arm. Taking a deep breath, he adjusted
his thong, which had once again ridden up between his cheeks. He
strode confidently up to the front door, narrowly avoiding what
looked like dog crap on a paving stone covered with dead grass as
he did. He stopped and frowned down at the offending item.

“You dare get one bit of your smelly self on
my Armani loafers and you are toast,” he hissed at what he now saw
was simply a clump of dried mud. Delicately avoiding all other
ground-strewn landmines, he managed to get to the front door. He
shook his head at seeing there was only a broken bell with wires
hanging out looking sorry for itself, and he raised a hand—neither
of which was truly free—to try and knock on the door as hard as he
could.

He waited.

The inside of the house was silent. There was
no scuffling down what he imagined were worn stairs, no clatter of
shoes across laminated floors and no welcoming opening of the door
to greet him. He frowned and knocked again, louder this time. His
folder slipped from where it was secured under his arm and he
quickly tightened his arm to hold it in place.

“Hello? Mr. Brown, are you home? My name is
Leslie Scott and I’m here with your new suit,” he announced
grandly.

He wriggled his backside uncomfortably—that
damn thong, what the hell was wrong with it—and scowled as he
raised a hand to knock again. As he did so, the door opened. A
man’s face peered out of him, half hidden. It was dark inside but
what Leslie could see of the face looked rather tasty. That was the
first surprise of this visit.

A shock of shaggy, honey-blond hair hung over
Mr. Brown’s forehead, and his tanned skin, neat beard and stubble
and one wide amber eye all mingled together to make Leslie feel
much better about his customer delivery. Mr. Brown also looked a
little familiar.

Leslie gave the man what he knew was a
dazzling smile, as he’d been praised for it more than once, and
indicated the suit hanging across his right arm.

“Mr. Brown? I’m from Debussy Fashion. I’m
here to deliver the suit you ordered.”

The man looked a little taken aback, but the
door didn’t open any wider. “Oh, I see.” His well-modulated voice
sounded a little strained. “Ermm, perhaps you could hand it over to
me?” An arm covered in the faintest blond hair and ending in long,
slender fingers with well-kept nails reached out of the door,
clearly intent on Leslie pressing the suit into his hand.

The whole thing reminded Leslie of YouTube
videos of Salad Fingers, something he was addicted to. He shook his
head vehemently. “I really need to come in and get the delivery
receipt signed, plus you might like to try it on before I leave,
make sure it fits?”

The door wobbled to and fro as Mr. Brown
indicated his refusal of such a kind offer. “Oh no, I won’t be
trying it on. There’s really no need for that. Do you really need
to come in?” His voice seemed hopeful that the answer would be
no.

Leslie sighed. He was starting to think he
didn’t really want to go in there with a man who seemed a little,
well, strange, but he knew Laverne would have a hissy fit if he
didn’t. “I’m afraid I do need the paperwork signed, yes. I won’t
take up much of your time, I promise.”

There was silence and Leslie shuffled from
one designer-clad foot to the other in impatience. It was rather
chilly outside and his steadily rising nipples chafed underneath
his snugly tailored shirt. Finally, Mr. Brown conceded defeat as
the door opened wider and a hand swung behind him, bidding Leslie
to enter.