If It Flies (13 page)

As soon as the thought crossed his mind, a sick feeling

squeezed Spencer’s stomach. He wasn’t committed to Nick

or anything, and was completely free to see or fuck any man

in London or beyond, but he was too uneasy for that. He was

still tripping over too much mental debris to consider fooling around with someone else. He wouldn’t be able to relax and

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enjoy it, so what was the point? Push came to shove, he’d

have a wank in the shower to relieve some tension and call it

a night.

Drinks, though. Drinks with Percy. That would be a

distraction, if nothing else, which would keep his attention

off the fact that his primary distraction was off cavorting in Spain.

He tapped on Percy’s door.

“Come on in.”

As Spencer pushed open the door, Percy held up a finger

and gestured at the phone cradled on his shoulder. He rolled

his eyes and made a
blah blah blah
gesture, which made Spencer laugh.

He eased himself into one of the chairs in front of Percy’s

desk and waited for the man to get off the phone. That didn’t

take long; apparently the conversation was already close to

wrapping up, because within two minutes, Percy had slammed

the receiver down with a bark of “Thank
fuck
.”

Spencer chuckled. “Having a good day, are we?”

His friend groaned and leaned back in his chair. “I swear

on all that’s holy, these motherfuckers are trying to make this merger more difficult.”

“Isn’t that the name of the game with a merger?” Spencer

laughed, thankful for the first time in his life to be discussing a damned merger. “Make it as difficult as humanly possible so

all the faint of heart jump ship?”

Percy sniffed and rolled his eyes again. “You aren’t kidding.

You know they’re talking about reducing headcount in Tax by

half?
After
the merger?” He slammed a palm onto his blotter.

“It’s already a goddamned skeleton crew down there!”

Spencer grimaced. “Really? Has it dawned on anyone in

charge that there’s a reason that department exists? Like, we

need them?”

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“Tell that to the bean counters,” Percy muttered, waving a

hand. “Anyway, what can I do for you?”

“Just wanted to come by and see if you were booked for

the evening. I could stand to go out and drink away the week.”

Percy grinned. “Ah, there’s my lad! I was starting to worry

you’d become a weekend hermit.” The grin broadened and his

eyes narrowed, and Spencer cringed inwardly as that accusing

eyebrow rose. “Or maybe there was a man in your—”

“
Perceval
.” Spencer glared at him, gesturing sharply at the door. “Do you mind? Walls are thin here.”

“Right, right.” Percy winked. “Okay, so I was thinking

maybe there was ‘someone special’ in your life who you were

keeping a secret.”

“No, nothing like that. Just . . .”
Just what, Spencer?

Percy was tuned in too well into Spencer’s inner voice,

because his face asked the same question.

“The merger really drains me.”
A merger is like the

marriage of two companies, right? One entity can deal quite
well on its own. Shit gets complicated when a second entity gets
involved.
How ironic. “I was fal ing asleep over my files these past weeks.”

“Months, Spencer. I thought I’d liberated you from that

existence . . .”

“You certainly gave it a good try.” Spencer inhaled and

exhaled deeply, lifted his shoulders in a what-can-you-do

gesture. “So . . . liberate me again?”

“Damsel in distress?” Percy grinned. He clearly got a kick

out of his Arthurian name.

“I’m not wearing a frock for that. Just . . . I think I need

some of your carefully-applied craziness.”

Percy laughed. “Now, that’s a romance if I’ve ever heard

one. On such short order, I don’t think I can come up with

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something really crazy, though a bunch of the guys are

abseiling from the Shard.”

“I don’t do well with heights.”

“Paintbal ?”

“In November?”

“Short of pushing the senior partners of that other law

firm onto the Tube tracks, that’s all I have at the moment.” He paged through the calendar of his smartphone. “Or what about

this kink party on Saturday? There’s a club that only admits

pretty people, and they’re holding orgies in the countryside.

You know, renting old Georgian manor houses, get a bunch

of people in who pay a few hundred quid for the pleasure, and

then it’s a free-for-al . Oh, and everybody’s wearing masks,

though I’m pretty sure I’ve seen some big movers and shakers

in various states of . . . agitation.” Percy gave him a saucy grin.

“You don’t have prominent moles on the chin or anything, so

you should be okay. If you’re interested, I can get us a couple tickets. It’s mixed audience—the people running it told me

there’s bi guys and gay guys and straight guys who end up on

the wrong side of the tracks . . . purely by accident. And if

you’re not getting your money’s worth, it’s a full refund. The food’s supposedly pretty good too.”

God, where did Percy dig up this stuff? Oh. Ex-investment

banker. Enough said.

Spencer watched his thumb run back and forth along

the edge of the armrest. “And they’re discreet?”
Am I actually
considering this?

“Totally. Given the calibre of men who show up at these

things, everybody knows to keep their mouth shut. No one

would even find out if Prince Harry showed up in a Nazi

uniform for a game of strip pool.”

Spencer snorted. “Are you saying that’s happened?”

96

“Not that I’m aware of, but given some of the stuff I’ve

seen? It wouldn’t surprise me.”

“I’m assuming I don’t have to wear a Nazi uniform, do I?

And my eight ball game is a little rusty.” He chanced a look at Percy, hoping no evidence of the last few months was written

across his forehead.

Percy shrugged. “Nah, you’re good. But if you’ve got one,

you—”

“No.” Spencer laughed. “Well, I guess if they’ll let in

riffraff like you, I could give it a go.”

“Excellent.” Funny how Percy’s grin wasn’t nearly as

unnerving now that Spencer had been on the receiving end

of Nick’s.

Wonder if that applies to everything in my life.

Spencer cleared his throat and sat up. “You’ll make the

arrangements?”

“I will.” Percy folded his hands across his lap. “That’ll take care of tomorrow night. Drinks tonight?”

“Absolutely. And they’re on me.”

“Damn right they are.” Percy waved dismissively towards

the door. “Now get back to work and earn me some expensive

alcohol.”

97

Chapter

ninE

hoever threw these wild—and yet discreet—sex

W
parties certainly pulled out all the stops. When

Percy stopped in front of the entrance, three valets in bowties and cummerbunds jumped to their feet and hurried down

the steps. They opened the Jag’s doors, and one of them took

Percy’s place in the driver’s seat while another issued a claim ticket.

“Have a good evening, gentlemen,” the third said, holding

open one of the massive double doors. Spencer had been to

corporate shindigs before that looked just like this on the

outside. Between the huge house, the valets, and the rather

expensive-looking jackets hanging on the rack behind the

guy at the coat check, this could have easily been some soiree thrown by a client or one of the partners. Someone who liked

to pour expensive wine and caviar down people’s throats so

they knew just how wealthy he was.

He doubted it would be wine and caviar going down

anyone’s throats tonight. From the confirmation email Percy

had forwarded to him the night before, there definitely

wouldn’t be any wine. No alcohol on the premises, and

violators were summarily banned for life. He could only

imagine the penalties for anything stronger than booze.

Since this was Spencer’s first time, there was a background

check and brief orientation. Fairly straightforward: no means

no, not every sub is your sub, and generally don’t be a fucking wanker. Simple enough. The background check cleared, and

they received white unisex half-masks, which they put on

98

before they followed another . . . employee? Valet? Whatever

the hell they were. Cummerbund and bowtie, anyhow, and

the kid led them down a hall lined with elaborate sconces that must have cost a fortune.

It was out here in the long hal , on the way towards

what must have been a ballroom or something similar, that

the reality of the evening started to cleave itself away from

the black tie galas Spencer had attended in the past. Maybe

twenty feet from the door, the smell of leather reached him.

For a moment, a rapid-fire film of memories flashed

through his mind, every one of them starring Nick and those

leather trousers. The scent, the shine, the sound. Holy fuck.

But Nick wasn’t here, so Spencer shivered away the

nostalgia and took a deep breath just before their escort

pulled open one of the immense doors.

Beyond was a large ballroom filled with groups of people.

Men, women, most seemingly in their twenties up to forties,

in a variety of clothes. There were people dressed dramatically in large wigs and fishnets, or understated in tailored suits;

some were getting more casual than that, having shed shirts

and jackets. Everybody wore the half-mask, and the light was

dimmed to flatter. Couches and pillows were strategically

placed, but from beyond that room came the tell-tale
snap
of a whip on naked flesh. He shuddered, the impacts echoing

like a visceral memory.

Candles flickered in a number of places, and attendants

carried drinks and chocolate-dipped fruit. On the couches

were people, some in the early stages of courtship, others very nearly puppy-piled. Men, women, a mix of both, it seemed

almost like it didn’t matter.

The slap of leather on flesh tore him out of watching a guy

with two women, the women on top, teasing and kissing each

99

other. Spencer glanced at Percy, who looked like he was about

to join that particular threesome.

Before Percy could suggest they both join in, Spencer

said, “I’ll just go have a look around. I’ll catch up to you.”

Percy made a quiet noise that was equal parts

acknowledgement and dismissal.

Spencer crossed the room, feeling quite a few gazes on

him. He fiddled with the white wristband on his left hand

which indicated he was here for male company. Percy wore

none—anything goes. Such an easy solution that took the

initial guesswork out of the flirting. He made sure it stayed

outside and visible below his shirt cuff while he got used to

his surroundings.

Intriguing sounds came from a side room; doors were

wide open, and as he walked in, Spencer saw a man getting

whipped with a single-tail in front of a smal , appreciative

crowd. Under the mask, he was greying, his chest bare: the

distinguished silver fox type. The guy whipping him was a fair bit younger. Spencer appreciated how precisely he set every

stroke, forming a regular pattern across the victim’s back.

Spencer’s mouth dried out and he leaned against the

wal , and watched the Dom drain a glass of water before he

continued. For a moment the man reminded him of Nick.

Lean but strong, blond. Though this one was taller and older,

and both his arms were tattooed, there were distinct traces of Nick in him. The flicker of a smirk. The arrogant gleam in his eyes. The subtle furrow of concern when his sub made a noise

that could have indicated alarm.

Spencer got the hell out of there. Somehow, he was out

of breath, even though he hadn’t done a damned thing except

watch. Except listen. Except breathe in air that was tinged with 100

leather and pheromones, cologne and massage oils. Even the

vaguely medical scent of lubricant, which made him shudder.

He wandered back into the ballroom. Percy had had

no difficulty finding some entertainment. His hand was

in someone’s long, thick hair as the person’s head bobbed

rhythmically over his crotch. Female? The skin-tight leather

dress suggested it. Male? The shoulders hinted at it. Either

way, Percy was lost in an enthusiastic blowjob, alternately

looking down and letting his head fall back as he stared up at the ceiling with unfocused eyes.

Then he caught Spencer’s eye and threw him a filthy grin

and a wink.

Spencer just offered a nod and thumbs-up—he had no

idea of the proper response—and kept walking.

“Looking for something?” The sassiness in the voice once

again brought Nick back to the centre of Spencer’s thoughts,

but when he turned, the source of the question was distinctly

not
Nick. Not with the jet black hair and matching dark eyes.

The mask obscured his eyebrows, but Spencer imagined them

quirking, arching, furrowing just right to drag answers out of anyone he damn well pleased. He was chewing gum, and it