Men of London 05 - Cross to Bare (24 page)

Lenny lost his breath. He turned and waved at the room. “This is for Laverne?”

Brook chuckled. “Yes. I meant every word I said this morning. I appreciate you thought about giving her up, but I don’t for one minute believe you’d be happier doing it. I love that you were willing to make that sacrifice, but you don’t have to. I love you both. Well, I love the Lenny person a lot more because that’s the man I’m in love with, but you know what I mean.”

Lenny swallowed, at a loss for words. When he found them, they weren’t literature but they were heartfelt. “Wow. No one has ever done anything like this for me before.”

“I love you,” Brook said pulling him closer. “I’ve tried to say it before but it never seemed to be the right time.”

“Me too,” Lenny agreed happily, pressing himself against Brook’s hard body. “I wanted to say it so many times but I wasn’t sure you felt the same way…”

Brook’s voice deepened. “Say it.” He nudged Lenny’s nose with his own. “Tell me the words.”

Lenny flushed. He wasn’t used to declaring his feelings quite as openly as Brook. Warm eyes regarded him with laughter, as one sexy eyebrow raised enquiringly. The look of love in them was unmistakeable and Lenny felt a wash of emotion unlike anything he’d ever felt before.

“I love you,” he murmured gently, running his hand over Brook’s stubbly head and drawing his lips down for a kiss. “I love you.”

Lenny had no idea how he got onto Brook’s bed, minus all his clothes, with a hundred and ninety pounds of warm, randy man on top of him, but he didn’t really care. All he cared about was the hot, flushed skin pressed against his, the taste of lips, then cock in his mouth. When Brook rode him, his sweaty, shining, burnished body poised above him like a living statue, with hunger in his eyes and stark need on his face, Lenny simply revelled in it, and embraced the fact he was loved.

Chapter 17

Lenny sat back in his office chair and sighed tiredly. He glanced at his watch. Eight p.m. The office was quiet and empty, and somewhere out on the deserted floor, an overhead light flickered and then went out. The external office plunged into darkness and Lenny glanced anxiously at the lamp that burned on the desk, hoping it wasn’t a citywide power cut. There had been a few of those lately. But Cleopatra’s contemplative visage remained staring out at him from her reclining position on her bed, delicate features highlighted by the soft glow of the bulb behind the etched glass fan. The solid brass art deco lamp had been one of his indulgences and he’d fallen in love with the item on first sight.

When he worked late, he preferred the restrained light of the lamp rather than the harsh glare of the overhead one, which always made him feel as if he were one of Leslie’s beloved fishes, spotlighted in a bowl for the entire city to see.

Lenny stood up, stretched, yawned until his jaw clicked then began stuffing his satchel with his papers, various oddities he carried with him, and his iPad and phone. He was due home at nine to meet Brook. He was glad his boyfriend had a key; it made working late so much easier than having to dash home and open up. Then they were going for drinks. Lenny still had to go home, shower and change. If truth be told, he would have preferred to crawl into bed and forget today had ever happened. He’d left Brook’s place this morning with a spring in his step and his spring had gotten progressively less sprung as the day wore on.

“It’s been the worst fucking day ever,” he griped to himself as he packed.

It started when the heel to his favourite pair of black shoes, his beloved Giuseppe Zanottis, had snapped off when it got caught in a grate as he’d rushed to work. Lenny had fallen arse over heels, laddering his stockings and nastily bruising and scraping his hand and forearm when he’d tried to stop his fall. It hadn’t helped that the man gallantly trying to help him up had uttered a disgusted curse when he’d seen Laverne was actually a man and had hurried back down the street, leaving Lenny sprawled on the cold, grey pavement. Lenny had given him the finger as he’d struggled to his feet and limped to the entrance to the tube station sans a heel. His back hurt from the lopsided gait he’d effected as he’d made the rest of journey to work. The snapped heel was safely in his satchel, though, in case the shoe could be redeemed—something he very much doubted.

Once he’d reached work, he’d found that a larger delivery of suit material from one of his most trusted suppliers had been delayed. Some shit to do with industrial action in France and a holdup at the ports for the shipping. That had meant rearranging a whole week’s work, and telling his customer that his order of ladies’ suits wasn’t going to be ready on time for his launch. Lenny had to eat humble pie on that one and make it up to the irate customer by yet again shaving the price.

“And as if it wasn’t already as low as I could go,” he muttered to himself as he packed his satchel with some fabric remnants he was taking home to assess. “Bastard sucked me dry, and not in a good way.” He scowled fiercely as he looked around the office, checking he had everything.

The cherry on the top of the crapalicious sundae that was his life today had been hearing that Tracy Trey had apparently criticised Laverne and Debussy’s Fashion in a recent television interview. He’d obviously been miffed at being found out by Laverne. Calling her a ‘lady that knew her stuff but still had a long way to go, with designs that didn’t hit the mainstream’ and simpering on stage about the fact he, Tracy, had made the list of nominations for the
Whirl Magazine
Best Up-and-Coming Designers list where Laverne hadn’t, had really pissed Lenny off, more so than stealing his designs. He knew personally Tracy had only got the nomination because he was fucking both the organiser and the patron of the magazine. The man was a slut of note. Laverne and Tracy hadn’t yet had the occasion to square up to each other, but payback was coming and best served cold.

Lenny had spent the rest of the day snarling at his staff, throwing things around and being a complete bitch. Even Leslie had scurried wide-eyed out of the office after he’d been growled at for trying to make Laverne some chamomile tea. In fact, Lenny thought guiltily, he might have shouted at Leslie to shove the tea where the sun don’t shine and bugger off. The memory of that made Lenny squirm and he wondered if he should call his friend to apologise.

Sighing, he pulled his phone out of his bag and dialled Leslie’s mobile number. It went straight to voice mail and Lenny closed his eyes in weariness as he left a message.

“Hi, Leslie. It’s me. I’m sorry about today, chicken. I was being a prima donna and I shouldn’t have gone off at you like that. I know you were only trying to help. I hope you’ll forgive me. I’ll see you tomorrow and apologise in person.”

He disconnected the call then made another one. Brook’s voice mail picked up.

“Babe, I’m leaving the office now. I should be home in about twenty minutes. Love you.”

Lenny hefted his satchel over his shoulder. He hadn’t changed into his ‘man clothes,’ as Brook teasingly called them; he was too tired to do that now and the public could damn well take him as he came. He’d change when he got home. Lenny
had
changed his shoes to a pair of flats that didn’t really set off his cream pantsuit to its best. He pushed fingers under his sweaty wig, gave his forehead a welcome scratch, and then re-fit it so it sat better. Not too long to go and he thought he could give the wig a miss. His hair was looking quite something, with it waves and curls.

“Fuck ’em,” he said to himself as he locked his office. “For once, I don’t care what the hell I look like.” Lenny made his way across the quiet floor to the lift. He wasn’t walking the four flights of stairs. His back was still sore from his walk in this morning, compensating for his missing heel. Not to mention the large bruise he’d found on his hip when he’d gone to the bathroom earlier and which now hurt like hell. He tapped his foot as he looked impatiently at his watch. There was no grating or grinding sound of the lift as expected, and he frowned and pushed the button again. The light went out. He pressed it again, vexed. The light went on and then rapidly went out. Still there was no sound from the lift shaft.

“You have
got
to be kidding me,” he swore. “Don’t tell me the damn lift isn’t working now. This day just keeps getting better.”

He huffed loudly and strode to the exit, pushed open the fire door and walked onto the landing. The stairs stretched downwards like the entrance to hell itself, daunting and dimly lit. Lenny swore softly then descended into the bowels of said hell. Every step he took, his hip ached and his hand throbbed with pain as he gripped the stair railing tightly.

“If Brook could see me now,” he murmured as he walked gingerly down the stairs. “I’d hear more insults about my age. The only good thing about this is perhaps he can give me a massage later and ease these aching muscles.”

That happy thought spurred him on, and when he reached the bottom and saw the bustling street outside, he gave a grumpy snort of relief and opened the ornate glass door to step onto the street. He’d only walked a step forward and was about to turn left towards home when someone shoved him sharply from behind.

He cried out, startled, dropping his bag and turning to face his attacker in a classic self-defence pose, knees bent, arms raised in protection. The scrawny kid who stood there, a sneer on his face and a glint of violence in his eyes, didn’t look as if he was a welcoming committee of any sort.

“Give me your wallet, lady,” he growled, light glinting off the knife held in his right hand.

Lenny took a deep breath. “Kid, go home,” he warned quietly. “I’m not in the mood for your shit and I don’t want to beat it out of you.” Adrenaline rushed through his veins, and Lenny felt the familiar pull in his stomach as he readied himself for a fight. It wouldn’t be his first bashing.

The look of disbelief on the kid’s face—he couldn’t have been more than about eighteen—at hearing a man’s voice coming out of what he thought was a woman would have made Lenny laugh in less dangerous circumstances. “Look at you,” the would-be thief snarled. “Call yourself a man looking like
that
?”

Lenny bristled at that comment. “This is a Vera Wang, arsehole,” he snarled back. “From her Spring 2013 collection. Look at you in your Reebok tracksuit special. Are you going for the Eau de Gangsta look maybe with that dirty hoodie and sweats? Don’t give me trouble,” Lenny warned. “You need to know you’re messing with the wrong guy.”

The young man laughed loudly. “Oh yeah? A fag like you in women’s clothing is going to kick my arse? I think not, pretty boy.” He smirked.

Lenny rolled his eyes at that boldness. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you, chicken. You want my wallet, come and fucking get it.”

It all went downhill from there. The kid launched himself at Lenny, who swiftly dropped his bag (again), sidestepped and struck the kid’s bony shoulder with the flat of his hand, shoving the kid to the ground. Lenny’s martial arts training may not have been kept up but he still remembered enough to defend himself. With a swift kick, he knocked the knife from the dazed mugger’s hand. The weapon went clattering into the road.

The kid struggled to his feet, swearing viciously. He held a large piece of brick in one hand. He cried out as he launched forward again and Lenny avoided the full blow; the corner of the brick caught him a glancing blow on the side of his head. Lenny grew dizzy with a sudden rush of adrenaline. That feeling, coupled with the stabbing pain in his head, made it all too clear what he needed to do next.

The mugger’s mistake was stopping to gloat over what he’d done. That split second of proud reflection when he should either have run, having accomplished what he’d set out to do, or beat Lenny senseless so that he was no threat, cost him his nose.

Lenny leapt forward, his right fist connecting, and he distinctly felt the crack beneath his knuckles. The mugger yowled in pain and fell backwards. Lenny stood there, breathing heavily as he watched the young man trying to stem the flow of blood.

“You bathdard! You broke my nothe. You mudderfucking bathdard.”

The mugger mewled like a girl, and Lenny winced as he held his hands and rubbed the already swollen and scraped knuckles. He scowled when he saw the blood on his pantsuit.

“Fucker,” he muttered. “You’ve ruined my suit.” He reached into his pocket, taking out a handkerchief, holding it against the slow trickle of blood from his head. He stepped away, watching the kid who tried in vain to stop the flow of blood from his nose. “You
were
warned.”

By now a small, gaping crowd had formed around them. Lenny had to admit the sight of a man in women’s clothing punching another man was probably something to see. He wondered if he’d trend on YouTube. The last thing Lenny needed now was to get arrested for defending himself too vigorously. Brook would have his balls, and not in the way he liked. His breathing was slowing now, his temper lessening. He pulled out his mobile.

“Do you want me to call 999 for you?” he asked, hoping the man would refuse and feeling it was a little bizarre to be offering emergency assistance to a man you’d punched in the face.

The kid’s reply was unequivocal. “Fuck you!”

At least that’s what it sounded like to Lenny, although it was difficult to hear clearly through the snot and blood.

Lenny shrugged. “Suit yourself. At least I offered.”

With one last expletive, the kid looked around, realised he was beaten and high-tailed it down the street as fast as he could go. Lenny watched his departure with a sense of relief. He stood nursing his already swollen and bruised hand and grimaced. He was starting to feel a little guilty about punching the man twice.

“Shall I call the police?” one of the onlookers asked anxiously. “I saw the whole thing. It was self-defence. I mean…” she flushed. “I thought it was a woman he was attacking.”

Lenny grinned wryly. “I seem to get that a lot,” he said drily. “No, no police on my side. They’ll never find him anyway. Other than the bad guy, no one got hurt.”

He took details of some of the worried onlookers, in case he needed to call on them later to back up his self-defence story then thanked them and went on his way. His knuckles hurt like hell but he felt quite frisky. He smiled widely as he walked to the tube. He might have to throw his damn pantsuit away but it looked like he’d taught that arsehole a lesson in manners. Dressed as a woman. What a turn up for the books.