Trusting Jack (MC Securities Book 1) Page 2

  Michael prowled about, staying in the shadows, picking his way carefully, and then spotted what looked like candlelight flickering in one of the upstairs rooms through one of the few, unbroken windows. He sighed.

  Mystery solved. Jack was living rough. Michael rubbed his chin with his thumb as he pondered what to do. Jack appeared in the window, so he moved more securely into the shadows, and watched as he tacked what looked like a blanket over the window, blocking out the light from inside and casting the building back into darkness. He sighed again and looked up at the window, but it yielded nothing. He wanted to go in. Wanted to go and talk to Jack. He decided that there was no point in barging in. Jack might feel threatened. He’d speak to him at the office tomorrow on neutral ground, but Christ alone knew what he was going to say. The whole situation just got a whole load more complicated.

  He carefully retraced his steps. Why the hell was he living rough? He didn’t pay him a fortune, but it was more than a living wage and should be enough to cover rent on something small. He set off back to the car feeling decidedly rattled. As he got to the lane that would take him to the main road he stopped and ducked back into the shadows. A shiny black BMW screeched to a halt outside the row of houses, completely incongruous in the run-down area, and a burly man in a parka, probably in his forties, jumped out, threw the hood over his head against the rain, beeped the alarm, and headed for the path to the back of the house where Jack was. Michael waited and watched. When the man turned into the back yard, and then ducked through the same broken doorway that Jack had disappeared through. Michael followed. Alarm bells were ringing loudly in his head. The man blundered up the stairs and made so much noise that Michael had no trouble following unnoticed. When he got to a closed door at the top of the stairs, he hammered on it.

  “Open up. I know you’re in there.” He pressed his ear to the door and listened for a moment, before standing back and hammering again. ‘“Come on gay boy, open it or I’ll open it for you.”

  Michael tensed as the door opened a fraction and the man took the opportunity immediately. He shouldered it hard, knocking Jack backwards and throwing him to the floor. Jack scrabbled back on his heels and then hauled himself to his feet.

  “What the fuck do you want?” he said, rubbing his elbow and shaking his head as though dazed.

  “What the fuck do you think?” The big man marched forward, and Michael took in at a glance the contents of the room. A sleeping bag on the bare floorboards, a camping stove, and a ratty old gym bag that looked to have clothes in it. A tin of tomatoes stood beside an almost empty bag of cheap supermarket tea bags, and a mug that looked like it had been nicked from the office with a teaspoon standing in it. It was all achingly tidy.

  The man grabbed Jack by the throat and squeezed. “I want the money.”

  Jack pulled himself free and rubbed his neck, coughing and struggling for breath. “Christmas Eve. I get paid on Christmas Eve, on Monday. I told you that. I had to work a month in hand, but they are paying me early for Christmas.”

  “Well, I want it now.”

  Jack pulled free and ploughed his hands through his hair, pulling it, screwing up his eyes. “Well, you can’t have it if I haven’t got it yet.”

  “How about a bit of a down payment?” the man said.

  Michael moved closer. Heart pounding. Braced. Ready.

  “Not a chance.” Jack held out a hand as if to ward him off, fear stark in his eyes. “No way. Fuck off.”

  In a move so fast it startled Michael, the man backhanded Jack, who went sprawling. He skidded over the bare floorboards and slammed his head up against the wall. Then, the man was on him, dragging down Jack’s pants and then grappling with his own fly. He tossed Jack over, so he was laying on his stomach, dazed, moaning and clutching his face, then yanked his arse up.

  “I think that’s enough.” Michael said it quietly. The man jerked up, snarled, and went to grab him, but Michael pinned him in a small flurry of coordinated movements. One arm twisted up his back hard enough to break it, knee between his shoulders. Not for the first time, he thanked any deity listening that he’d kept up with the martial arts training.

  The man screamed. “No, no…okay okay…”

  “What’s the debt?” he asked, twisting a little harder.

  “Ten grand, but he only needs to pay one. On Monday… I swear.”

  “Then you’ll have it on Monday. Get up.” He leaned back, keeping the hold on the man’s arm, and let him get to his feet. The angle his arm was held at kept him bent over. Staying behind him, Michael walked him in the direction of the door. “Bother my boy again and you’re a dead man.” He shoved him through and slammed it behind him. Michael hesitated a moment, and then turned around to find Jack staggering to his feet, dragging up his pants, clearly unable to even look at him. Michael’s heart was racing so fast he was shaking. Where the fuck had that come from. ‘My boy?’ ‘Dead man?’ Jeez.

  Michael stared at the closed door for a minute, then turned to Jack. They stared awkwardly at each other. Jack was shaking and rubbing his eyes, Michael watching him.

  Michael swallowed, then cleared his throat. “You’d best get your things together.” Michael gestured to the sad, tidy pile of possessions.

  “What?” Jack’s voice wavered, and he looked up. His cheekbone was red, and there was a small cut that was leaking blood.

  “You can’t stay here, you’ll either freeze to death or he’ll come back and finish what he started. Get your stuff. You’d…better come with me.”

  “Mr. Cross, I…” He floundered. Michael expected a fight, but clearly Jack had sense because after a moment’s hesitation, his shoulders sagged and started gathering his things. Michael half expected him to just leave it all, or cram it in a bag, but he carefully pulled the stuff out of the gym bag and re-packed it neatly. A pair of jeans, a T-shirt, and a pair of socks went in. A bottle of cheap supermarket body wash that had about an inch left in it, a toothbrush, and a roll-on deodorant followed. Michaels’s chest tightened as he watched. He rolled up the sleeping bag, and it fit into a small pack, clearly a summer weight bag that would be no use in an unheated, derelict house in the middle of winter. Beneath the bag were two well-thumbed Stephen King paperbacks and they went in too. He hesitated, and then added the tin of tomatoes, a half empty bag of pasta, and the tea bags. He picked up the mug, and even in the dim light he could see the flush on his cheeks.

  “This is yours,” he said, running a finger over it, still not looking at him. He put it into the bag, and then folded up the single-burn gas stove, a pan, a plate and some cutlery, and tucked it all carefully in. It looked like a practised routine and it all fit in the holdall perfectly. He tucked a couple of unused candles and a box of matches down the side and looked around to make sure there was nothing left. There wasn’t a thing. It was as though he had never been there. Peeling wallpaper, bare boards, and a battered, pink shade. Remnants of a life. Of lives. Echoes of the past.

  Michael had no idea what to say about the mug, so he ignored it. They stared at each other in awkward silence for a moment. Michael felt like he’d fallen into some damned film noir. Felt like he should have a trench coat and a fedora, or at least a cigarette, and that he should be murmuring, ‘come with me kid,’ in some meaningful Bogart-esque growl.

  Jack shivered.

  “You’d best blow the candles out.” Michael nodded to the burning candles on the floor, pulled out his phone, and switched on the torch. “Um, you can stay with me tonight … we will work out what to do.”

  Jack’s shoulders hunched, and his breathing grew shallow. Michael was afraid he was going to cry.

  Chapter Three

  They walked back to the car in silence. Michael unlocked it and opened the boot for Jack to throw his bag in the back. He hesitated, clutching it to him for a moment, then carefully placed it inside. It was less than ten minutes back to the office, and Michael’s flat, and the silence continued. He parked in the underground spot, and they headed
up in the lift. Jack’s head was down the whole time. His hair wet and matted, his face bruised and damp. Michael wasn’t sure if it was rain or tears. He tried to think of something to say, but the lift doors pinged, and they walked out. Michael headed towards his door.

  “Come on in.” He unlocked it and pushed it open. Jack followed.

  “How’s your head?” he asked, putting the keys into the dish on the hall table, and flicking on the lights. He shrugged out of his coat and held his hand out for Jack’s.

  “Okay.” He struggled out of the wet garment, the sleeves turning inside out as he peeled out of it. He handed it over. His shirt was soaked and stuck to him, his pants were sagging around his waist where the button had come off.

  “You don’t look okay.” Michael hung the coats, turned up the thermostat on the heating, and then walked through the flat to the kitchen. He grabbed the kettle and brandished it.

  “Tea?”

  “Please. Black. Thank you.”

  He filled it and set it to boil, watching Jack all the while. He was dreadfully pale, and the bruise on his cheek was turning purple. His head was still down. Michael busied himself making drinks and let him adjust. If he were honest, he needed time to adjust himself. He still couldn’t quite take in what had happened.

  “Sit down. It won’t be a minute.” Michael nodded towards the kitchen stools around the island.

  He perched awkwardly and stared at his hands. Eventually, Jack glanced up, did a quick inventory of the room, but then dipped his head again. When he handed him the tea, he took it quickly and wrapped his hands around the mug before blowing and then sipping the scalding liquid. Michael put milk in his and sat opposite him.

  “How come you are living rough then?” Michael asked after yet another lengthy silence.

  “Owe money.” He took a mouthful of the hot drink and winced.

  “I gathered that. How come you owe that much money?”

  He took another drink and then put it down. “I should be going.” He stood and hitched up his pants, then realised that the button was gone. It must have been ripped off. He hesitated a moment, then tucked the material into the top of the waistband and tugged at the zip.

  “Hold on,” Michael said standing too. “Where will you go? You can’t go back to Longsight, not after that.” He gestured at the swelling on his face. “You need a bath, a hot meal, and some clean clothes. A good night’s sleep probably wouldn’t go amiss either.”

  Jack stopped, looked at him, and then closed his eyes on a small, but unutterably weary sigh. “Yes. I need all of those things. Are you offering?”

  Michael thought for a moment then shrugged. “I suppose I am.” He watched the resignation settle on those slender features, watched his shoulders slump again.

  “And, what do you want?”

  “Want?” Michael frowned.

  “What do you want in return?”

  Michael shook his head, puzzled.

  “You gay?”

  That brought Michael up short. He supposed he was, but he wasn’t out or anything like that. “What if I am?”

  Jack shrugged wearily, that smoky grey gaze found his. “You want me to blow you or do you want more?”

  At Michael’s incredulous silence, Jack apparently sought to clarify. “Do you want my mouth or my arse?” Something glittered in his eyes.

  Michael swallowed his retort, furious at the notion that he would think that he would only help on that basis, that this had clearly been his experience, but even more angry and alarmed at the involuntary reaction of his body to the thought of his mouth or his arse. His mouth went dry at the thought of kissing him, of sucking him… of more. Of the things he had studiously avoided thinking about in Jack’s presence. His dick filled instantly, and he felt his cheeks flush. He felt like the worst kind of bastard.

  He scowled. “Neither. Just the offer of somewhere to stay and something to eat until you get yourself sorted. Nothing more than that.”

  Jack raised an eyebrow, glanced in the direction of Michael’s groin that now bulged uncomfortably, and looked back up at him. “Yeah, right.”

  Michael pinched the bridge of his nose. “Just…get in the bath. You’ll feel better. It’s this way.” He made his way down the hall and opened the door to the bathroom and set the water running. He pulled down two big blue bath towels, hand towels, shampoo and dropped them on the closed toilet seat. “There you go. There is bubbly…smelly shit in the cupboard too.” He gestured vaguely at the bathroom cabinet. “Give me your clothes. They need washing.”

  Jack hesitated, then started unbuttoning his shirt and Michael’s mouth went dry again. “Toss them out when you’ve done.” He slammed the door behind him.

  When the clothes were placed in a neat pile outside the door, Michael picked them up and grimaced. They were definitely cheap and old. They smelled of ingrained sweat, the kind that builds up when clothes are not washed properly for a long time, just as Carla had said. Even if he boiled them they would still stink. He rubbed the back of his neck and then made a decision. He knocked on the door. It opened, and Jack peered around, holding his now naked body behind the door, grey eyes wide.

  “I need to nip out,” he said. “I’ll lock the door, but I’ll only be about twenty minutes. Use my robe when you’re done and make yourself at home.”

  Jack Whelan sank into the huge tub that was brimming with hot, fragrant water, and bubbles from the ‘smelly shit’ he’d been offered. It was amazing. Just like Michael Cross. He closed his eyes and saw him tackle Bryce in the bedsit. Amazing. He’d had him down as a gorgeous, but quiet, nerdy type, but in that moment, he’d turned into some sort of frigging ninja. Just smacked Bryce to the floor and almost made him cry. Then, that line about ‘bother my boy again and you’re a dead man,’ was like something out of a fucking film. Amazing.

  He shook his head and grinned at the memory as he rubbed bubbles into his skin. He wanted to believe that his boss was the kind of man that would just help a guy out, without wanting anything in return, but if the whole of his life had taught him anything, it was never, ever take anything for granted and never trust a man who says he doesn’t want you with a bulge in his pants. He smiled again. He’d do Michael Cross for nothing. When he’d walked into the interview, he’d thought he’d blown the whole thing because he could barely form a coherent sentence. He’d just wanted to stare. The man was gorgeous. From his silky dark hair, intensely serious dark brown yes, but with the softest looking, most kissable lips he’d ever seen. He was absolutely gorgeous. Not the most handsome man he’d ever met, but there was just something about him that made his stomach flutter and his cock harden. He had a tiny scar through his left eyebrow that he’d wanted to touch.

  Brushing the image away, he got busy with the face cloth and soap. He was manky. Washing in the wreck had been a nightmare, and his clothes had got proper filthy, so the chance of a soak and a thorough scrub was heaven. He hoped that Michael had put his stuff in to wash on a high heat. It would need one to get rid of the grime. He washed his hair twice, slathered it with the conditioner he found, gave himself a last rinse and climbed out. It was so good to be warm. He towelled himself dry, inhaling the scent of the freshly washed fluffy towels, and then pulled on Michael’s robe that hung at the back of the door. It was dark burgundy, unbelievably soft, and smelled of him. He wrapped it around him and, closing his eyes, breathed him in.

  Once he’d got most of the wet out of his hair and combed it with his fingers, he opened the door, and finding the flat still empty, went to the living room and cautiously prowled around. It was a lovely flat. Not too big, but definitely expensive, and really nicely kitted out. Everything matched, all warm browns with flashes of red here and there. The sofa was squishy and enormous, and there was a TV as big as a cinema screen, with a games console sat beneath it. Jack ran his fingers over the leather and peered at Michael’s bookcase. He smiled when he spotted some of his favourite books and pulled out a well-read copy of Stephen King’s Sal
em’s Lot. He’d read it as a kid and it scared the shit out of him. The film adaptation still terrified him, but it was the boys at the window tapping and asking to be let in that made his chest hurt. When he was younger, he’d wondered if that was what was wrong with him. Maybe he was a vampire. He ran his fingers over a cool marble fireplace that housed a fancy looking electric fire with flickering flames. It gave the whole room a cosy feel. Like something off an advert.

  He put the book back and wandered to the huge floor-to-ceiling window. It overlooked the bustling area of Piccadilly right in the middle of the City. It was still busy, people rushing about, cars and kids everywhere. He leaned against the window and just watched. He loved to watch. It wasn’t often he was on the inside looking out though. He leaned his face against the glass. It was cool against the bruise that was coming up. He stood back and realised he had left a smudge. He was rubbing it with the sleeve of the gown when the key sounded. He jumped, gave it one last quick rub, stood in the middle of the room for a moment, then sat down on the big sofa and tried to look nonchalant, conscious that his legs and feet were bare. He debated about pulling them up out of the way, but then Michael came back in bringing the cold with him. He hesitated when he saw him on the sofa, then placed a couple of store bags beside him. Jack looked at them, then up at Michael feeling unsure.

  Michael frowned, cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his head. “Ah, I binned your clothes.”

  Jack’s heart thumped. “What?” Why the fuck would he do that?

  “I’m sorry, but they… reeked. Badly. I got you more. You can pay me at some point when you have money if you insist. For now, just take them.” He nodded at the bags awkwardly.

  Jack stared open-mouthed, then felt an embarrassed heat hit his face. Well, that was blunt. He swallowed, then awkwardly peered in the bags as he fought down the mortification of realising that he must have been stinking for ages. He pulled out a pair of black work pants, a pair of grey pants and some skinny jeans all in the right size. He swallowed again. Next, he found three shirts, two for work and one casual, a dark purple jumper, a black thin jumper, two T-shirts with some kind of logo on, underpants and socks, a pair of smart trainers and some black leather loafers. He stacked them neatly on the sofa but when he got to the bottom of the bag and found a pair of fleecy, warm pyjamas his throat constricted. He breathed slowly and forced the lump away, but it was a moment before he could speak.