Men of London 03 - Suit Yourself (4 page)

Despite his coat, Leslie shivered as he
stepped inside. It was lighter now, and he could see the faint glow
of lamps from a room to his left. The air was warm and fragranced
with sandalwood. He stood with the suit still draped over his arm
and raised an enquiring eyebrow as Mr. Brown remained mute in the
small entrance hall.

Now that he was closer, Leslie took stock of
the man.

His first impressions had been correct: the
man
was
attractive. A couple of years
older than him, he guessed, and a little taller, his customer had
broad shoulders that were encased in a snug-fitting long sleeved
dark green shirt. His narrow, tapered waist was evident in his
loose chinos, with legs that were muscular and well defined. Mr.
Brown’s dark blond hair was long, shoulder-length strands falling
like a curtain over the right side of his face, obscuring the full
view. His square chin and cheeks were covered in thick, light blond
stubble and one eye gazed at him curiously and with a modicum of
trepidation. Leslie had to say, he approved, but he wished he could
see the man’s face properly. He was sure he knew him from
somewhere.

“Do I know you?” he asked contemplatively.
“Perhaps you’ve been into the business in person and I’ve seen you
there?”

Leslie didn’t imagine the shutter coming down
on his customer’s face as he turned away and motioned Leslie into
the lounge on the side of the hallway.

“I doubt it. I haven’t been to the fashion
house, I’m afraid. Please, come into the lounge and you can leave
the suit there. You said you had paperwork to sign?” His tone
indicated that he wanted to get this ordeal over as soon as
possible.

“Yes, just the delivery receipt. It’s in my
folder. Where would you like me to put the suit?” He stopped dead
and stared wide-eyed around the inside of the lounge. Clearly,
appearances were indeed deceiving. The interior was beautifully and
tastefully decorated in shades of cream and amber, splashes of
colour populating the eye-catching overall canvas of the room in
the form of a multitude of cushions on the large
buttermilk-coloured couch. Bright, rainbow-coloured paintings
reminiscent of Matisse dotted the walls. Plants were in abundance,
green foliage spreading wide and welcoming arms; Leslie felt as if
he was in some alternate tropical resort. He expected a bird of
paradise or a toucan to whizz past his head at any moment.

“Fuck me. This room is bloody gorgeous,” he
exclaimed then winced as he realised he’d just sworn in front of a
client. Laverne would have his balls if she found out. “Err, I’m
sorry about the language, I—”

Oliver Brown gave a quiet laugh and waved a
hand around the room. “No worries. I’ve heard the word before,
believe me.” His tone was dry. “I’m glad you like it. It’s my
little bit of fantasy living.”

Leslie nodded. “Well, it works for me. Uhmm,
where do you want me to put the suit?”

Oliver motioned to the back of the couch.
“Just lay it across there, and I’ll get that paperwork signed for
you. Let me go get a pen. I have one in the kitchen.” He
disappeared out into the hallway again while Leslie laid the suit
down reverently, not feeling too bad about its new home now he’d
met the man and seen inside his house. He placed his cherished
leather folder on the side table as he took another chance to
inspect the room, marvelling at the décor—until something
distracted him, something that was easily done as he had the
attention span of a two-year-old.

“This fucking thong,” he cursed loudly as he
reached a hand down into the back of his suit pants and tried to
remove the stringed offender from his chafing crack. He was so busy
with his bout of arse calisthenics that it was only when he heard a
polite cough that he looked up to see a flushed, yet slightly
amused half-face observing him. Oliver Brown’s dark eye—why on
earth had Leslie ever thought that name was boring?—obviously found
something funny. Or perhaps he was turned on? There was a hungry
look in his eye.

Leslie huffed as his face went pink both with
the exertion and the embarrassment of being caught with his own
hands down his trousers.

“Is everything all right?” Oliver enquired,
his face politely schooled. Leslie waved one airy hand, still
fidgeting with the other.

“Oh yes, just having a bit of trouble; I seem
to have the wrong thong on.” Oliver’s eyebrow rose ever so slightly
and Leslie hastened to explain.

“I mean it’s mine, of course, God knows I
wouldn’t wear anyone else’s—but I have one that I thought I’d
gotten rid of for exactly this reason and obviously I hadn’t. I
think this is the
one
!” He ran out of
steam at the precise moment when the problem item resolved
itself—for now—and he stood looking at Oliver, unsure what else to
say. Gamely, he removed his hand out of the back of his pants.

Oliver nodded wisely. “Ah, thongs. Nasty
little hobbits, they are.” An uncanny mimicry of Gollum left those
beautiful full lips and sounded like the real thing.

Leslie blinked. “Wow. That was a damn good
impression.”

Oliver shrugged modestly. “A talent, I guess.
Not that it will do me any good.” His voice was bitter and Leslie
suddenly had a burning desire to know what this man’s story was—not
to mention seeing his whole face.

Being constantly confronted with half a man’s
visage was strangely disquieting in a
Phantom of
the Opera
way. He’d noticed that Oliver was careful to keep
the hidden side away as much as possible and that where evident,
his hair was artfully draped over it. The tantalising knowledge
that Leslie was sure he’d seen this man before also was playing
havoc with his natural curiosity.

Leslie realised he was staring when Oliver
waggled a hand in front of his face and addressed him. “Hello,
anyone in there? Could I have the paperwork I need to sign
please?”

He sounded a little testy. Leslie reached out
for the pen in a bit of a panic that he’d been caught drooling over
a client and as he did, his quick action knocked it out of Oliver’s
hand. It went flying across the floor and rolled under the
couch.

Oliver sighed with exasperation. “Great. Let
me get that for you, shall I?”

He placed his hand on the arm of the couch,
and bent down to retrieve the pen. As he did so, his shirt rode up
above his waist, exposing the small of his back and Leslie really
couldn’t help checking it out.

Oliver’s honey-hued skin was smooth and the
tautness of his chinos enhanced his rounded arse. Leslie nodded in
appreciation then, as he saw something he really hadn’t expected to
see, his jaw dropped and a flash of recognition rushed through his
body.

Mouth before brain. “Oh my God, I’d know that
tramp stamp anywhere. I’ve seen it often enough. You’re Nicky
Starr, the porn actor.”

Pen in hand as he straightened, Oliver Brown
turned around slowly. His hand unconsciously arranged his hair
across the right side of his face. But it was the look on what
could be seen of that face that shook Leslie. Composed of panic and
anger, but mostly quiet resignation.

They gazed at each other in silence until
Leslie blurted out what was on his mind as he tended to do when he
was nervous.

“Sorry about the tramp stamp comment.”

Leslie seemed to be apologising to this man a
lot. “But that tattoo is pretty unique, so I knew it was you. I
know it’s been a couple of years since you made any new movies, but
it all clicked in my brain when I saw it. You look quite different
now what with the long hair and beard.”

The tattoo was indeed one of a kind from what
Leslie knew. Beautifully detailed and imaginatively drawn, the
two-inch-tall image of Yggdrasil, the tree of life, had captured
Leslie’s eye as he’d watched the man before him perform in more
porn sessions that he could remember.

Nicky Starr had been his hero and his man
crush (along with others of course, but Nicky had been his
favourite). Now the man who’d given him a lot of wet dreams and
masturbation material was standing before him.

Leslie continued gushing. “You’ve been gone,
what, nearly two years? I was devastated when you retired. I mean,
you’re so young…” His voice trailed off as he realised Oliver Brown
really didn’t seem happy at all that he’d been discovered.

Oliver moved away and turned to look out of
the window. His hands trembled. “Are you going to call the
newspapers? The radio station perhaps, tell them they have an
ex-porn star in their midst?” His voice was rough. “Get your moment
of fame by telling everyone where I’ve been hiding out?”

Leslie stared at him in horror and more than
a little growing fury that he was being accused of something so
underhanded. “What? No, of course not. Why would I do that?”

Oliver shrugged but still didn’t turn around.
“Everybody does.” His tone was flat but Leslie saw his shoulders
stiffen. The man looked as if he was barely holding it
together.

“Well, I’m not everybody. So don’t taint me
with the brush that other arseholes use.” He knew that last comment
didn’t really make much sense but he was upset.

Oliver turned slowly, his tone a little less
hostile when he spoke. “I’m sorry. Sometimes it’s not easy for me
to trust people.”

“Yeah, well, I know that feeling,” Leslie
muttered. “I had a boyfriend who cheated on me for weeks until I
found him with his mouth wrapped around a stranger’s cock. So I’m a
little wary myself.” He warmed to his subject. “And this one time,
there was this party I went to, where I got a bit drunk, and some
of the guys I thought were my friends, decided I’d be good for a
gang bang. Luckily a real friend of mine saw I was in trouble and
helped me out. But that could have been one nasty night.”

Oliver blinked. “You seem to have led quite
an eventful life,” he murmured, but his face was more relaxed
now.

“Not like yours, though.” Leslie waved his
hands around like a puppet on a string. “I mean, you had it all,
hot guys to screw, the high life, all those great parties and then
one day you just disappeared. Nobody knew where you’d gone. I
nearly cried when you stopped making films. You were one of my
all-time favourites.”

Oliver’s face darkened and a look of intense
sadness washed across his golden skin like a gentle wave.
“Sometimes we don’t have a choice,” he said quietly. “I’m not
particularly newsworthy any more, but I want my privacy.”

Leslie’s heart ached and he moved closer to
Oliver. He took a deep breath and laid a hand on his arm. “Not
being forward or anything, and I know you’re a customer and all,
but you look like you could use a friend, or maybe a hug.”

Panic flared in Oliver’s face and he stepped
back. “That won’t be necessary.”

For a moment the two men stared at each other
and Leslie felt the spark that flared between them. Oliver was
definitely attracted to him—that much was obvious from the look in
his eye and the quick glances at Leslie’s lips, where Leslie’s
groin was enjoying the attention, too, as his dick inflated.

Damn thong, it feels like a
bloody boa constrictor has my dick. But fuckity fuck. What I can
see of this man is simply beautiful. And knowing I’ve seen
him
and
his cock in all their glory isn’t
helping.

Leslie’s discomfort and porn action
reminiscences were forgotten as Oliver moved closer and held out
his hand, silently indicating the pen and miming a writing
action.

Leslie blinked at it and then with a shrug,
he picked up his folder and took out the delivery document. He
handed it to Oliver who didn’t even read it, simply scribbled a
signature across the bottom and handed it back.

“Thank you for delivering my suit,” he said,
his voice strained. “I appreciate that you came all this way out to
do it.”

The dismissive tone hurt Leslie, who was
simply trying to be nice to someone who looked like he needed a
shoulder to cry on.

He decided to throw caution to the wind and
ignore the vibes of ‘Please leave now’ that emanated from his
customer. It had worked for him before. He was used to people
giving in from the force of his obstinacy and ‘I’m here, so you’d
better get used to me’ personality.

“Where did you disappear to, anyway? The
newspapers just said you’d retired due to personal reasons. I
searched the Internet for months looking for news on you, but I
never found anything. Well, apart from a small article that you’d
recently had a bike accident but were recovering well. I was going
to send you flowers but I couldn’t find out where you lived, or
which hospital you were in. I rang your agent but they wouldn’t
tell me anything either.”

He ran out of steam and felt a sense of
disquiet at declaring himself to be a stalker of note. Oh, God.
Perhaps Oliver would have him arrested now and he’d have to spend
the night in a smelly cell filled with sexual deviants who’d see
him as some sort of twinky glory hole. That thought caused goose
bumps to form on his skin and he shivered. Sometimes his overactive
imagination was his own worst enemy.

“You’ve gone very pale,” Oliver said
cautiously. “Are you okay?”

Leslie was gratified that Oliver had noticed
his predicament. “Just wondering how I’d fight off all the bears
that wanted to do me in prison,” he explained, seeing Oliver’s eyes
widen in surprise. “I mean, I’m not bad looking, and I doubt I’d
last long in there.”

Oliver blinked. The man seemed at a loss for
words.

“Because it might have sounded like I was,
you know, stalking you,” Leslie gabbled. “I wasn’t really. I was
just worried about you. I’d hate to be arrested for caring about
someone.”

Oliver found his voice and Leslie was pleased
to see the start of what looked like a grin on his half face. “I
won’t be calling the police, I promise. Well, unless it’s one of
those stripper grams with a night stick.”