Men of London 03 - Suit Yourself (5 page)

Leslie snorted then raised a hand to his
mouth, mortified. “Oh, God, sorry. I don’t usually do that. I think
it’s just you bringing out the snort in me.”

Oliver definitely grinned now, a wide, easy
sight that made Leslie’s heart speed up and his toes curl. “It was
a pretty adorable snort.”

Leslie’s cock swelled at the compliment and
the fact Oliver thought it had been ‘adorable.’ The thong took its
revenge by wrapping silky fingers around him and squeezing. He
winced. He wanted nothing more than to take off his trousers and
remove the damn thing, but he had a distinct feeling that would
definitely get him arrested. Manfully he ignored his restricted
nether regions.

“Glad you liked it. I’m sure I have a few
more left in me in case you want to hear them?” He cocked his head
enquiringly. “You just have to say something else funny.”

Oliver’s face relaxed. He seemed to be
getting over his earlier mood of ‘Fuck off out of my house.’

“You’re an unusual man, Leslie. I’ve never
met anyone quite like you.”

Leslie’s face warmed. “I suppose there are
worse things to be called than unusual. Thanks.” His hands grew
animated. “My all-time favourite was that scene where you were the
country gentleman and you found that gypsy lad stealing apples from
your orchard.
Fruity Encounter
I think it
was called. The way you managed that situation was classic. I
wished I was that wicked gypsy.”

He fondly remembered jacking off to that
scene over and over again as the gypsy lad was ravished to within
an inch of his life and enjoyed every minute of it. It had been
hot, dirty and as sexy as hell. Oliver was a pretty impressive guy
down below.

Oliver nodded. “That was me and Leo Loving,”
he mused, his face pinking delightfully with the recollection. “He
was beautiful, inside and out. He’s directing his own films now.
Serious films too, not porn. He’s done really well for
himself.”

“Oh, he’s wonderful,” Leslie gushed. “And I
remember you and Gregori Golovin. You two had such great on-screen
chemistry. Weren’t you both an item at some time? Whatever happened
to him?”

Oliver’s face darkened. “I haven’t seen him
in a long time. And we’re definitely no longer any sort of
‘item.’”

From the look on Oliver’s face, Leslie knew
he’d struck a nerve. He hastened to fix his faux pas. “So why did
you stop? Why aren’t you doing something else? You had the talent
and contacts to do anything you wanted.”

The other man turned to face the picture
window and gazed out into the garden. Leslie moved up behind him.
He had a suspicion he was wearing Oliver Brown down.

“Honestly, Oliver, you look like you could
use someone to talk to,” he murmured softly, growing more confident
to the point of resting a hand on Oliver’s shoulder. “And I’m a
good listener.”

He waited with bated breath for his hand to
be shoved off Oliver’s shoulder and to be told to go to hell, but
all he heard was a deep sigh, a heart-wrenching one that made his
soul weep. It was not short of despair.

When Oliver turned, Leslie moved backwards
and watched in apprehension as Oliver drew back the shock of hair
covering the right side of face. Leslie’s horrified gasp sounded
loud in the stillness that followed.

Oliver spoke, his tone weary. “You did
ask.”

A deep, jagged scar marred the tanned skin of
Oliver’s face. It was about an inch in width, tapering down from
the hairline at his forehead to the bottom of his jaw.

While it was healed and a dark pink in
colour, it cast a heavy pall on the beauty of his face; his partial
beard covered some of it. Various small pockmarks decorated his
cheek and jawline like flecks of silver and his right eye drooped
slightly on the outside corner. It gave him a strangely oriental
look.

“Oh. My. God,” Leslie stammered. “What the
fuck happened to you?” He couldn’t help feeling a spurt of horror
in his stomach that one of his heroes should be so tarnished.

Oliver let his hair fall back across his
disfigurement. “Motorbike accident.”

“Wow. That must have really hurt. I had no
idea…” Leslie’s voice tailed off. He really didn’t know how to
express what he was feeling right now. “I can see why you wear your
hair over it...” He bit his lips, seeing the look of derision
crossing Oliver’s features. He had the sinking feeling his reaction
had been what Oliver had expected. Now he’d got it, his earlier
seemingly more approachable demeanour soured.

“I was stupid and this was the result.”
Oliver said curtly. “And afterward no one wanted to fuck or be
fucked by me so I was washed up in the porn industry. Apparently
they were all squeamish about seeing
this
face in the throes of passion, along with the other scars on my
body.” His bitter tone bled into the room with the acidity of snake
venom.

“So now you know. Don’t worry. I’m used to it
by now. It’s why I don’t go out much. I can’t stand the pity and
disgust in people’s faces if my hair blows the wrong way.”

“I’m not disgusted,” Leslie managed to blurt
out. “It was just a bit of a shock. I mean, you were so
beautiful…”

Again he knew he’d said the wrong thing by
the way Oliver’s face hardened and the shutters came down
again.

“Yes, because having a scar on my face really
changes who I am inside,” he spat out. His eyes were both angry and
disappointed. “I think the freak show is over now. You should
leave.”

Leslie tried to smooth things over. “Surely
you could have stayed in the industry? Perhaps they could have just
shot different camera angles, or left your face out of the
shots?”

From the black look on Oliver’s face, his
efforts had backfired. “What the hell? You mean I should have laid
down on the bed or whatever and let some guy screw me from behind
all the time so no one gets to see my face?” Oliver was
scathing.

Leslie’s face flushed and he wanted to crawl
into a deep, dark hole. That hadn’t been the most intelligent thing
he’d ever said, he supposed. But he
had
only been trying to help.

“Thank you for delivering my suit, Mr.
Scott.” Oliver waved toward the front door. “Have a safe journey
home or back to the office, or wherever you’re going.”

Leslie hurried over to the table, picked up
his folder and tucked it under his arm. He felt a little sick at
how the day had ended when it had started so promisingly. Perhaps
he’d send a Jacqui Lawson
Sorry I was such a
prat
greeting card later to the man. He didn’t know whether
that category existed, but in his opinion, it should. He might have
to email Jacqui and tell her about his new idea.

“I’m sorry if I offended you in any way. I
didn’t mean to,” he said softly as he opened the door then turned
to look at Oliver. “I’m really glad I met you and found out that
you’re all right. I was really worried about you disappearing like
that. I hope you stay well and uhmm, enjoy the suit.”

Oliver’s face remained impassive although his
jaw twitched, and his fingers clenched and unclenched by his side.
With one last smile, which Leslie hoped conveyed his apologies once
again, he left the house, closing the door gently behind him.

Chapter 4

Oliver slumped against the closed door, his weary
sigh echoing in the now quiet entrance.

Why the fuck did I do
that?

His regret at having shown his damaged face
to that beautiful, exotic specimen of manhood that was Leslie Scott
made his stomach roil and his face heat up in embarrassment.

It was a weakness born of loneliness, his
inner voice chided.

I push everyone away from
me, don’t get involved, and then all it takes for me to renege on
the promise I made to myself is a black-haired, blue-eyed,
incredibly fragranced creature that makes my heart beat faster. A
man I wanted to drag into the bedroom to make our own porn movie.
My personal fantasy come to life.

In truth, at the first sight of seeing Leslie
Scott on his doorstep, Oliver’s heart had leapt like a floundering
fish and his rather neglected cock had come to life and made its
sad presence known.

For a man who’d once made his living with his
dick, Oliver certainly wasn’t earning any pennies now. His sexual
relations with other men were reduced to the occasional discreet
escort from an agency he used, plus an occasional fuck with an old
friend, Maxwell Lewis, an air steward who visited when he flew into
London on one of his whistle-stop stay-overs.

Max was fun, drop-dead gorgeous and rather
kinky, and Oliver enjoyed his company. Max was now on a busier
overseas route flying in and out of Heathrow, so opportunities to
hook up were few and far between.

Oliver was a bit of a hermit. If he had to go
out, he’d go to places where the public wouldn’t recognise him, or
where it was dark. His small circle of friends, who kept his
situation private, was his first choice. Then there was this
house—both his haven and his prison, a place where he could hide
away without the paparazzi and nosey parkers.

His London apartment was known to everyone,
so it was currently hired out to some socialite who was regularly
in the news. Going to gay clubs to dance and meet people was out of
the question; the chances were someone would recognise him and the
whole sorry story would have to be told over and over again.

Then Leslie Scott had inveigled his way into
Oliver’s staid and boring existence. Looking like an exotic bird
with his deep blue eyes, fashionably dressed plumage—
that suit he’d worn had been amazing, the lithe body in it
even more so—
and a slender, trim-toned body of the type that
Oliver hungered after.

Leslie’s attempts at trying to cheer Oliver
up had been heart-warming and unexpected; his reaction at seeing
Oliver’s scars for the first time, however, wasn’t. Oliver had seen
the pity and horror in those sapphire eyes. Leslie hadn’t really
deserved the contempt Oliver had thrown at him, but he was tired of
people’s disgust and commiserations.

I fucked up my face and
body not my brain, or my personality
.
I’m
still the same person inside.

Thinking of that reminded him of Gregori.
Leslie’s careless question had cut deep. It had hurt having the
love of your life walk out on you
again
after seeing you for the first time in the hospital looking less
than pretty.

Oliver’s mobile rung, and wearily, he pushed
himself off the back of the door and went to the dining room to see
who was calling.

He smiled slightly when he saw who it was.
“Afternoon, Katie,” he said. “How goes it with you?”

A loud, angry, southern U.S. twang assaulted
his eardrums. He winced.

“Don’t you ‘Afternoon, Katie’ me, you
bastard. Where the hell are you? You’re supposed to be here at
Fidalgo’s, having afternoon tea with me. I’ve been waiting an hour.
Are you on your way?”

Oliver’s skin prickled with unease. “No, I’m,
er, I’m still at home.” Shit. He’d forgotten all about this
tea party
. His best friend went quiet.
That was when Oliver knew he was
really
in
trouble.

Katie Elizabeth Fotheringham was a force of
nature—the offspring of a tornado mated with a tsunami—wrapped in a
statuesque, busty, and
in your face
package of Southern belle and old English money.

“You’re still at home, leaving me here to sit
on my own, looking like some poor girl a fella just jilted at the
altar?” Her accent was more pronounced now, a sure sign she was
getting fired up for the finale, which was to dress Oliver down
fiercely with a side order of
fuck
you
.

“I got a bit sidetracked, I had this
delivery—” Oliver’s ear nearly bled at the shriek that emanated
from the phone. He’d deliberately left out the word ‘suit’ as he
knew what Katie would say. And he certainly wasn’t going to tell
her about the hot piece of tail he’d just met. She’d never give up
convincing him to ‘go for it.’

“Oliver, you didn’t. Another damned suit?
Honey child, what on earth are you doing? You have a whole room
full of new suits you’ve never even worn.”

Oliver blushed. It was true; he was what
Katie laughing called
a closet suitaholic
.
He craved suits. He’d worn them extensively as Nicky Starr when
he’d modelled in his past life, and taken great pleasure in feeling
the fabric against his skin; selecting a tie and cufflinks to go
with his chosen attire and strutting out on the town feeling like a
million dollars. Oliver Brown knew how to wear a suit, certainly
but Nicky Starr…he’d been a connoisseur, a veritable fashion plate.
Women and men had drooled over him and his fashion choices.

Oliver sighed in regret. Those days were over
now, but still he kept to his tradition of ordering a new suit
every month, sometimes more. He figured he had the money, heaps of
it, sitting in the bank, so why not indulge in his collecting
hobby?

“It’s a new Debussy, I just had to have it…”
his voice tailed off at the exasperated expletive on the other side
of the phone.

“Ollie, honey, get your sexy ass down here
right now or I might just have to disown you. I refuse to sit here
looking like Lady Leftalone. I’ll wait for you and order you a
salad. That at least won’t get cold while I sit here and twiddle my
thumbs.”

The phone clicked off and Oliver gazed at it
and heaved another sigh. It was only ten minutes by tube to see
Katie. Oliver enjoyed travelling the tubes where no one cared about
each other, where it was all strangers with a complete disinterest
for one’s fellow man.

Sometimes when he was really lonely, Oliver
would hop on one and travel as far as he could then come back
again.