Men of London 04 - Feat of Clay (7 page)

As for danger to him—Clay
had
been getting some threatening phone calls recently
telling him something nasty was going to happen to him if he didn’t
back off a certain missing-person investigation his team was
working on.

His agency and the police were now involved
because it looked like there was a tie-in to a case they were
working on, involving toxic waste being dumped illegally in an
abandoned quarry in Oxfordshire. The scenario had the potential to
be similar to the Monsanto scandal in Wales a while ago. Clay had
been down at the police station with Tate’s nephew Rick at the
time, who’d convinced Clay to file a report on the threats, ‘just
in case.’ Clay had done so to placate Rick but he didn’t really
think anything would come of it, or anything would happen to him.
He got threatened all the time.

Tate didn’t know about the threats and now
wasn’t the time to tell him.

Clay nodded jerkily. “I get it. I’m
sorry—”

Tate leaned forward and placed a warm finger
on his lips. “Don’t ever be sorry for trying to keep me safe. Just
turn it down a notch. Let
us
breathe.”

Clay reached up and kissed the hand at his
mouth. He nodded. “I’ll try. Do you want me take out an ad in the
newspaper saying ‘Tate Williams and Clay Mortimer are in a
relationship, having mind-blowing sex and will continue to do so
for the foreseeable future’?” The thought definitely gave him a
buzz. He wanted nothing more than to tell the world Tate was his,
but his fear had held him back. But now was the time to make it
right.

The wide smile on Tate’s face at his attempt
at humour made the world a brighter place. “I think we can give the
banners a miss,” he grinned as he leaned back in his chair. “But we
can go out and do it with graffiti if you like. That would be cool.
I miss doing that now I’m supposed to be ‘respectable.’”

His body was more relaxed and Clay wondered
if that capitulation on his part was all it had needed to achieve
that. If so, he felt a real prat for not listening to Tate
sooner.

Dr. Jakes grinned at him. “There. That wasn’t
too bad, was it?” she said jokingly. “And as for that graffiti
thing you do, Tate…” She pressed her hands over her ears. “I heard
nothing.”

Both men smiled sheepishly. She leaned
forward and slid a piece of paper across her desk. “This is the
address of the home. It’s called Castaways and it’s in Camden.
Randy is expecting you, so just call him and set up when you fancy
going in.” Her face grew serious. “I really think this could help
as part of your therapy, so be very aware that this course of
treatment is mandatory. If I get a call from Randy asking me why
you haven’t called yet, I shall be displeased.” She grinned
wolfishly. “And you won’t want that, trust me.”

Clay had no doubt that statement was true.
Natalie Jakes’s reputation was legendary. She might only be a slim,
five-foot-five, bespectacled, red-haired woman but she had
determination and grit. She’d been recommended to him by a former
colleague of Clay’s in the SAS who confessed she’d had him sobbing
like a baby in his own session.

She looked at her watch. “Time’s up, gents.
Go home, fuck each other’s brains out and let off some steam.”

Both Tate’s and Clay’s mouths dropped
open.

The therapist smiled wickedly. “What? I watch
gay porn. It’s hot. I read gay romance books too. So shoot me.” She
shrugged. “Are you going to report me for unprofessional behaviour?
You know I’m not all that conventional at the best of times.”

Clay guffawed at that understatement. Tate
grinned but there was an element of wide-eyed surprise in them at
her words.

“Doctor’s orders, love,” Clay said with a
leer. “I think she has something there, with fucking as
therapy.”

Tate’s tanned cheeks pinked up. Clay shook
his head. Tate could shoot the wings off a gnat at a hundred paces,
talk dirty with the best of them and had some kinks Clay wouldn’t
ever reveal to anyone, but discussing his sex life with his doctor
got him all embarrassed.

“Thanks, Doctor.” Tate held out a hand and
shook hers. “So, same time next week? And I’ll give Randy a call. I
promise.”

They left the office, and on the drive home
as Clay manoeuvred his Audi through the city traffic, little was
said. Tate had reached over and laid a hand on his thigh as Clay
drove. The solid contact had warmed Clay. He felt that somehow
today they’d turned a corner—one that he had probably been guilty
of delaying with his paranoia. This thought rankled all afternoon
and night, even when he climbed into bed that night at his home
where Tate was staying over.

His partner was reading a Norman Mailer book
called
The Faith of Graffiti
. It was a
well-worn copy that he browsed through every time he wanted to read
something familiar. Seeing it, Clay instinctively looked at the far
wall of his bedroom where a painting hung. It was a large, square,
silver-framed picture of Tate’s tag signature. It was a simple
TW
in some funky script, in bright red,
because that was Tate’s favourite colour.

Tate had never understood Clay’s reasoning
for having the print done and framing it. Yet in Clay’s head, this
was a unique portrait of everything Tate Williams stood for.
Unconventional. Brave. Quirky. Headstrong. Fearless. Not to mention
his whole ‘stick it to the man’ philosophy, which was contradictory
to him being a detective. And
so
Tate.

Tate looked up at him and laid the book down
on his side table. His chest was bare, the covers pooled at his
waist. “Work stuff finished for the night? And it’s not even
midnight,” he said teasingly.

Clay took a deep breath as he slid into bed,
clad in his sleep boxers. “I finished work stuff a while ago. I was
busy with personal stuff.”

Tate nodded. “Bills and things? Hope you paid
the electricity bill. I put that load of fresh fish from the market
we went to earlier in the freezer. You don’t want that going off.”
His nose wrinkled.

Clay turned to face him and reached out a
hand to idly stroke the bullet-hole scar on Tate’s chest. “No. I
called home actually. Spoke to Mum and Dad.”

Percy and Angela Mortimer still lived in the
neighbourhood where he and Tate had grown up. They’d been
neighbours to Tate’s parents, Sam and Rachael. Tate’s folks were
now deceased; his dad had a heart attack when Tate was in his
twenties, and his mother died four years later from a brain
aneurysm. Clay had been devastated when he’d learnt that. Tate
didn’t talk about them much, but Clay knew his own folks had been
there for Tate when Clay had been off roaming the world. They were
exceptionally fond of Tate and his big sister Lucy.

“Oh?” Tate’s eyebrow lifted. “How are they?
Still looking to win Garden of the Month?” he snorted. As
youngsters, he and Clay had spent a lot of time toiling in the
garden trying to win the coveted village trophy.

“They’re fine. I, ermm, I told them about
you. About us being together.”

Tate stilled. “As in
together
-together?”

Clay nodded. He lay back on his pillows and
crossed his hands under his head as he stared at the ceiling. “It
was a bit of a let-down actually. They said they knew. Something
about how I looked at you whenever you walked into a room.” He
rolled his eyes. “I didn’t know I was that transparent. But they
didn’t want to bring it up until I did.”

There was silence. He risked a look at Tate,
whose face was glowing, his eyes shining.

“You really mean to keep your promise, don’t
you?” he whispered. His hand came out and brushed a strand of hair
of Clay’s forehead. “I know this isn’t going to solve everything,
Clay. I’m still going to struggle; there’s no quick fix. But it
means a lot to me that you listened today.”

“I just wish I’d done it sooner,” Clay said
sadly. “I feel like a dick for making you feel less than you are.
That was never my intention. I’m a man. I should have understood
how you felt being treated like a kid. I just wanted to keep you
safe.”

Tate shifted over to run his fingers down
Clay’s chest and push the covers down past his hips, revealing his
already semi-erect cock.

“Oh, yes, indeed,” Tate murmured as his lips
traced down from Clay’s hardening nipple and trailed down his skin.
“You are definitely a man.” He gave Clay a wicked smile, his eyes
heated under long lashes. His fingers curled around the base of
Clay’s aching hard–on. Clay gasped as Tate licked the tip and then
licked a long, wet path down the underside. “And I need to test out
the doctor’s advice about fucking being therapy. So hold on to your
balls, honey, because you are about to get the ride of your
life.”

Clay choked down a laugh even as his body
thronged with sensation at what Tate was doing to his dick. “I’d
rather
you
held onto my balls, actually.
Oh, God, yes. Just like that…”

Clay closed his eyes and braced himself.

Tate stood in
front of a large house in the leafy suburb of Camden and gazed at
the building perched at the top of the stone steps. It looked
innocent enough—an old Victorian house, similar to Clay’s, built of
red brick with a white door. The sign bolted to the left of the
ornate iron gate read simply ‘Castaways.’ He grunted moodily as he
walked up the steps to the front door then pressed the bell.

The house was on a busy street, the hustle
and bustle of traffic behind him drowning out the sound of any bell
that may have rung inside. He waited. It had been a week since he’d
promised to make it down here, and although he’d kept his promise
to Dr. Jakes, he wasn’t really in the mood.

After a minute, the door swung open. A
harassed-looking woman in around her mid-forties or so stood there,
dishcloth in hand and a weary smile on her face.

“Yes? Can I help you?” She glanced quickly
out into the street then her gaze swung back to his face.

He forced a smile. “I’m Tate Williams. I’m
here to see Randall Pierce?”

Her face cleared. “Oh, yes. I’d heard someone
was coming. I hadn’t expected you so soon. I thought you were
coming later in the afternoon.”

Tate cleared his throat. “If it’s
inconvenient, I can always come back later.”

Yep. Like much
later.

He was grumpy; he hadn’t slept well, had been
restless and the remnants of his bad dream from last night still
haunted him. Clay cutting the strings on the overprotectiveness a
little had changed something. Tate felt more at ease and the
nightmares had lessened somewhat, but they could still invade his
sleep like an unwelcome guest. The other day a car had backfired
and while Tate had started and his gorge had risen in fear, it
hadn’t caused an extreme reaction similar to the firecracker
incident. He’d been able to control it.

She waved at him with the dishcloth. “Oh no,
it’s fine. Please come on in. Randall is around somewhere. I’ll get
him for you.”

Tate stepped into the hallway and his ears
rang as the woman bellowed out loudly. “Randy. Your guest is
here.”

A harried voice called out from somewhere in
the distance. “I’ll be there in a moment, Jen. Please show him to
the lounge. Tell the kids not to bother him if they’re in there. No
need to scare him off before we even get started.”

Tate shook his head at the fact that this
Randall guy thought a few kids could scare Tate. He’d faced far
greater perils.

Jen laid a hand on his arm. “If you follow
me, I’ll show where to wait.” She motioned him over to a room on
the side. “Would you like a cup of tea, or coffee?”

Tate shook his head as he followed her into
the room. “No, thank you. I—” His voice cut off as he encountered a
few pairs of eyes staring fixedly at him. It
was
as unnerving as hell, like something out of
Children of the Corn
. The kids, ranging in
age from about seven to twelve years old observed him with the
fixation of a cat about to devour a bird. Tate could now see what
Randy had been warning Jen about.

“Uhm, hi,” he proffered as he waved a hand in
their direction and cursed Natalie Jakes for putting him in this
situation. The youngest looking kid in the group was a podgy,
dark-skinned boy with black, shining eyes, and cornrow hair. He
barked at Tate.

Tate blinked in confusion at the shrill
‘Woof’ emanating from that stocky little frame.

Jen tut-tutted. “Now, Damian, stop that
nonsense. You know you’re not a dog, sweetheart.” Her eyes narrowed
fiercely at the others. “No matter what this lot tells you.”

The room broke into sniggers as the kids all
looked around at each other with sly grins. Damian smiled too, and
sidled over to Tate with what looked a half-eaten string of red
liquorice. He held it out solemnly to Tate who reached for it with
some trepidation.

He held it uncertainly and caught Jen’s eyes.
She shrugged apologetically.

“I think he wants you to eat it. You don’t
have to, though. I mean, I don’t know where it’s been.”

Tate nodded, and swallowed. Then he took a
deep breath and shoved the liquorice into his mouth. He chewed on
it—it did taste a little gritty—then gave a thumbs-up to
Damian.

“Very nice,” he managed to say after he
swallowed what tasted to him like something out of the garbage.
Tate hated liquorice.

Damian’s face lit up and he nodded. He woofed
again and went back to the group, who now had dropped their degree
of intense observation and looked a lot more relaxed. Tate started
when someone spoke behind him. It was a warm voice traced with
laughter.

“Guys, stop messing with Mister Williams.
He’s here to see Randy, not eat your leftover yucky sweets.”

Tate turned and hoped he managed to hold back
the shock at seeing the face of the young man behind him.