Hard Pressed

Chapter 3-1

Chapter 3

Who’s the nob?”

If Gary had already been served he would have likely choked on his drink hearing George’s question. The look on Drake’s face was worth the price of breakfast alone, not that a couple of coffees and some toast would cost much in George’s fry-up. Drake was staring at the proprietor with a startled, almost comical expression. For once, his eyes lost their usual predatory gaze. Gary would have to be careful what this man saw, because he had a feeling Phillip Drake didn’t miss anything much. He wrote for the London Inquisitor, after all…

Gary looked Drake up and down long enough so the man would know he was doing so, then turned his attention back to George. “The usual times two,” he said, at the same time wondering whether Drake thought George meant nob or knob. In Drake’s case, either would do. He ignored Drake’s murmured protest, nodded at George, and headed over to a table.

Drake might be eagle-eyed, but he wasn’t the only one. Gary kicked out a chair and made a show of glancing around as he sat down, but he took in every movement and gesture the other man made. Drake sat down opposite with a business-like manner, but he failed to hide his distaste. If he could have got away with it, Drake would have put napkins under his bum to protect it from the seat. Drake had already made his assumptions about the people who visited this place. This ‘type’ of establishment had down and outs, lonely pensioners, overweight lorry-drivers. If he stuck around, Drake would be in for a surprise. George had a few of all those, but he had other clientele, too. These days, the cafe was a hangout for writers and actors more than local people.

While they waited for breakfast and Drake pretended indifference, Gary looked the man over. Drake wore the same style of clothes in which he was often photographed. The suit really was over the top for breakfast in the equivalent of a greasy spoon. The clothes were over the top for the time of day, or following Gary around, and contrasted with his casual jeans and T-shirt. He was doing well with his career, but Gary didn’t intend fame should change him. Had Phillip Drake allowed his job to change him, or was he born wearing a pinstripe?

Drake could do with easing up on the hair gel. The style didn’t need him to keep every strand rigidly slicked back in straight lines. The same went for his back. Drake sat inflexible, arms folded across his chest. His eyes were a strange colour—definitely green, but they seemed to have a hint of golden brown, as if just a few flecks in his eyes matched his hair. Gary couldn’t get an accurate idea of the man’s body shape, owing to the severe cut of the suit. He tried to envision Drake in a pair of jeans, and while that was something of a struggle—Gary couldn’t quite relieve himself of the image that those jeans would have a neat pressed line down the front—he doubted the man would look any less elegant than he did in expensive tailoring.

Drake was beautiful in his way. People noticed him when he entered a room, although he appeared to be oblivious. If he noticed their reaction at all, he’d likely falsely assume they were looking for all the wrong reasons. Instinct told Gary that Drake wasn’t as confident as he liked to pretend.

He was tall, and he walked tall. He commanded attention because of the way he carried himself, but…something was amiss. Gary had wanted to meet with him for some time. The man was an enigma, and that made him interesting.

His agent had squawked that he was mad to do this interview, only quieted when his publicist said it might be a good idea. When the publicist had gone and they were alone, his agent had questioned his motivation. “Tell me you’re not attracted to him. You’d have to be some kind of nutcase to have the hots for someone like Drake. Anyway, what’s the point when it won’t get you anywhere?”

What was the point, indeed? Still, when Drake had approached him by way of his agent for this interview, Gary had dithered only because he didn’t want the other man to know his immediate reaction was to say yes.

Fine, so this was a crazy thing to do. A bit of a gamble, mate, as George would say. Everyone was trying to get the dirt on him, but besides liking guys in a s****l way, Gary didn’t have any hidden bones…none anyone could dig out anyway. He was…boring. He worked, he ate, he slept, he read, watched a little television, played a few computer games. He had a laptop for email, but his publicity department ran his website, and he didn’t even tweet. No one was going to find porn on his hard drive or videos of him having cybersex. The most one could accuse him of was dancing his heart out occasionally in a gay nightclub, and yes, very infrequently, he’d taken someone home, but that was rare and a while ago. He’d never taken drugs or gone with anyone he’d even suspected of being remotely high. Still, inviting Phillip Drake into his life was risky, despite his existence being rather mundane. Regardless of his publicist’s enthusiasm, even he had asked if Gary was sure. Gary had always preferred to face his opponents head-on. Besides, Drake intrigued him, and yes, he was attracted to the man.

What is wrong with me?

Good question, and one to which he had no answer. The first time he’d seen Drake, he’d known he’d do the man in a heartbeat. The emotion had nothing to do with going after the unattainable or playing with danger. He’d experienced that ‘curling in the pit of one’s groin’ sensation of instant lust. Gary didn’t feel true lust very often, and by that, he didn’t mean s****l feelings, but real lust of the kind that was almost as strong as what he imagined a drug-induced high to feel like. The first time Gary had seen Drake on the television, his s****l craving had been so intense, he could have screwed for hours, and he’d had to take care of himself not once, but twice. Even when he’d lain back sweaty and spent, desire had still thrummed away under his skin. He could have spent the rest of the night m**********g. Only his self-control had stopped him from getting a sore d**k.

Gary didn’t feel such extreme need that often, but when he did, he’d always acted on it; if the man happened to be straight, Gary at least shared a conversation. Drake wasn’t someone a friend had introduced or he’d caught sight of in a club. He’d had no way to cross paths with the journalist, other than to seek an interview, and no one sought an interview with someone like Drake. However, when the reporter came on the hunt for him…that was quite a different thing. Gary had the perfect excuse to indulge his fantasies. s*x with Drake was probably out of the question, but that didn’t mean Gary couldn’t enjoy being around him.

The other attractive thing about Drake was also his most annoying: he was oblivious. People around him were only bones to pick over. Drake gave the impression that he walked through a room separate from everyone in it, above them. The same air accompanied him now, even as he bided his time waiting for their order to arrive—time Gary spent enjoying. He had the chance to ruminate and examine. What Gary didn’t know and began to suspect he would take pleasure in finding out was whether the journalist believed the bullshit he fed himself. He’d love to discover something vulnerable lying beneath that inflexible mien. He couldn’t be the only one to have noticed that something in Drake’s manner had changed since he wrote the exclusive interview with Sandford and Lasseter. What was their story? Why had the two men granted such an interview?

Drake had gone from looking around to staring at the tabletop.

“No notebook?”

That startling gaze flicked up, piercing. Only then did Gary realise he hadn’t been subjected to the man’s full penetrating stare before now. How would he feel, ensnared by Drake’s stare while in the throes of an orgasm?

Gary cut the thought off. He might find the man interesting and attractive physically, he might even lust over the guy, but nothing was going to happen between them, least of all because Drake was straight. Phillip Drake didn’t like gays, and Gary didn’t like people who didn’t like gays. He didn’t like people who didn’t like other people in a group mentality way, period. People should be judged on individual merits, not because of who they were or what they believed in, but the way they behaved and treated others. Lust had little to do with like, at least in this instance. He had considered being unnecessarily pleasant to Drake, no matter how rude the bastard got or what he wrote, but quickly decided the journalist would see through that. No one was that nice. Especially when having to share time with people like Drake.

“I thought you were going to be making notes,” Gary said. “You know…the trailing thing? Jotting down my day?”

“I don’t think toast will excite our readers too much.”

“It might if I wipe my bottom on it.”

“Sell it on eBay?”

Not expecting the comeback, Gary couldn’t refrain from laughing. “Some ijit would buy it, too.” He almost bit his tongue trying to stop the remark, even as it escaped. He needed to remember the no comment rule. Drake would now write him up saying he thought his fans were idiots.

“Or offer to lick butter off your backside.”

Gary shrugged. Despite his thoughts of caution, he said, “I’ve had offers like that. Some better. Some worse.”

Drake’s lips parted. A light seemed to illuminate his eyes from within. Clearly, the man wanted to say something, ask something, but he stopped.

Good timing. George came over, bringing the drinks and toast on a tray. He put the whole arrangement down and then tipped an index finger against his temple. “Gents,” he said congenially before moving off, but he shot a look at Drake that wasn’t at all pleasant. Either George had finally recognised Drake, or George just didn’t trust him. Probably the latter—although he was becoming a celebrity in his own right. Most commonly, people knew Drake for his writing, rather than by his face.

Gary suppressed a smile. While he was glad to know he had friends, if Drake saw the smile that wanted to bloom on Gary’s lips aimed at George, he’d jump to the wrong conclusions. George was straight and had a lovely family. Best for Drake just to think this was somewhere he came for burnt bread, not a place owned by a friend. Gary cursed the mistake of bringing Drake here. Well, they’d eat, leave, and he’d not come here again until this foolish week was over. He’d call George tonight to explain the bozo.

Said bozo was staring at the contents of the tray as if it contained a helping of botulism. Maybe George didn’t like Drake because he understood what Drake’s sort thought of his cafe; maybe he was just paying attention to his own instincts.

As should I. Unfortunately, his instincts seemed inclined towards Drake, rather than despising him, and that, Gary couldn’t understand.

“Tell you what. Try the coffee and I’ll answer a question. Try the toast and I’ll answer another.”

Gratified by the flash of surprise in Drake’s eyes, the twang of disappointment when the look so swiftly went away almost made Gary gasp. Amusement took up residence when Drake dithered. Gary nodded toward the coffee. A look of mistrust filtered into Drake’s gaze, but he picked up the mug. He held the piece of crockery poised near his mouth for a moment longer and then took a sip. His eyes flashed wide over the rim.

“Real coffee.” Gary backed up the statement with a nod. “Now the toast.”

“How do I know you’ll keep your bargain?”

“If I don’t, you can write me up as a liar. The toast will get cold.” George always warmed the plates, but no matter what one did, toast remained warm only so long. Drake took a bite while Gary sat, a little disquieted with the intensity of his own gaze. He made himself look away. When he looked back, Drake’s stare was rather more studious than surprised. As he chewed, he looked at the toast as if he’d never seen anything like it before, and maybe didn’t know how one created such delicacies.

“Butter,” Drake said.

“You were expecting something else?”

“You know I was.”

“And now you know why I eat here.”

“Do you—” Drake stopped and shook his head.

“What?”

“I was going to question, but I know you’ll count that as my first out of the two you’ve granted.”

“Any reason I shouldn’t?” Gary shrugged. “Tell me what the question was anyway.”

“No. It’s not important enough to waste.” Drake took another bite of the toast before putting the slice down. He washed the morsel down with the coffee and, for the first time that day, appeared to relax.

“Tell me anyway. I won’t count it.”

Drake’s gaze flashed with suspicion and calculation. “I was going to ask whether you eat here often, but that’s not pertinent.”

“Then why ask?”

“To get a feel for what you do and what you like.”

“Then why isn’t it pertinent?” Gary could practically see the man’s mind churning over. Drake didn’t know what to make of him; that was good. Trouble was, Gary still wasn’t certain what he made of Drake. He dove in with what he hoped was general information Drake could ascertain with just a little digging.

“I eat here now and again. I do not eat all of my meals from a cafe or any of the local takeaways. I like good restaurants, but I am quite capable of cooking a more than adequate meal. My mother taught me to cook.”

“Why? What is she like?”

“That’s two questions, but I’ll take it as one and the first.” Gary grinned at Drake when the man opened his mouth to protest, but clearly realising the futility, he closed it again. “She taught all four of her children to cook.”

He didn’t have to tell Drake that he had two brothers and a sister. The journalist would have found out such easily accessible information. He might or might not know that his mother had miscarried, twice, but unless Drake mentioned it, Gary wouldn’t. Did that information amount to owning a skeleton? The only reason he didn’t want to mention it was to spare his family pain.

“She believes that all children, regardless of s*x, or sexuality”—he couldn’t resist slipping that one in there—”should be able to look after themselves. She sees it as the duty of both parents to make sure their children are capable in all things. She taught all of us how to cook and clean. How to sew enough to repair our clothes, or at least hold up a hem or put on a button. She made sure we could all swim, all drive. She’s…a very strong woman.” He couldn’t help the ponderous quality that came into his voice.

“She’s determined, yet gentle with it. She can trick you into learning without you even realising she’s teaching you something until it’s too late and you’ve already succeeded. If you failed…” Gary shook his head. “She has this way of convincing you that trying again is the natural thing to do. Does that answer your question?”

He didn’t think Drake could deduce anything from that, other than Gary loved his family. Granted, maybe he’d admitted his feelings a little more openly than most people, but he made no secret of being happy and well-adjusted; he owed that to his kin.

“It’s enough. My second question…”

“Yes?” He expected Drake to ask for information regarding his father.

“May I keep it? And no, that isn’t my question. I mean may I keep the question until I have something worth asking?”

Gary laughed. “Sure. You can keep one question open.” He shouldn’t be answering any. The specifics for the week had been that Drake would trail Gary, see how his schedule operated for the week, how he lived. At the end of said time, Gary would chat with Drake. This was supposed to give Gary the upper hand. False sense of security sprang to mind—a cliché that was apt in this case. Gary wasn’t used to acting guarded. He shouldn’t have any reason to laugh in front of Drake. He just couldn’t seem to help it. Unexpectedly annoyed, he said, “How about answering one of mine? What’s it like to be the type of journalist who gives journalism a bad name?”

A shadow passed over Drake’s face, one Gary hadn’t expected. Way to go. Piss the man off. He almost wished he could take back the comment, even apologise. He bit down on his tongue, hard. One didn’t apologise to a man like Drake, not because it was wrong—although on one level, that was true—but because one couldn’t be certain he wouldn’t find some way to use a show of sympathy to his advantage. They sat still, silent, until the moment began to stretch out interminably. The strange conclusion crept over Gary that both of them were poised on the verge of saying things to each other they might regret, and not necessarily because they would be bad things. Sometimes confessions and honesty could strike one detrimentally as insults. Minutes ago, he’d wanted to see beneath the facade that Drake displayed to the world. Now he wasn’t so sure.

For the first time that day, Gary realised he was thinking of the man almost solely by the guy’s surname, but somehow, it fitted. Gary could imagine Drake preening his feathers, when he was, in reality, waddling through life like a flat-footed duck. Gary drew on his acting ability not to burst out laughing. He was no longer sure he wanted to discover that the man had a heart. He was having too much fun disliking the guy. Drake speaking came as a relief.

“This is not my saved question, but I’m wondering what the itinerary is for today.”

“I’ve a read-through. Nothing for the rest of the day or evening. Going to kick back, learn some lines. Rehearsals tomorrow.”

Drake consulted his notes. “The read-through is for the cameo appearance, right? The rehearsal is for the stage play?”

“I’d hardly call it a cameo.” He didn’t want Drake to think the journalist had niggled his pride, but he couldn’t help pointing that out. The reporter made the first role sound unimportant. “And yes, the play does take place on a stage. You have at least some of your details right.” Best idea was to swing things back to a slur on Drake’s professionalism.

“You said you’ve got lines to learn. I thought you would know them by heart already.”

So they were going to trade subtle punches. Gary licked a trace of butter from his lips, a little nervous thrill going through him when Drake’s gaze flicked to follow the action. Gary liked the attention. Although he didn’t like to consider himself arrogant, when others were singing his praises, the temptation to crawl up one’s own backside could be difficult to ignore, and wasn’t that an image he’d like to toy with when he had some solitary time? His reaction had little to do with conceit, though, and everything to do with the prospect of s*x. Pity for him that wasn’t going to happen.

“It’s called a rehearsal for a reason,” Gary said. “You know, it’s where actors rehearse the play, including their lines.”

While Gary hadn’t agreed to twenty-four-seven, the only hours free to him would be those when he got ready for bed and slept. The arrangement hadn’t sounded so bad when he’d agreed. He’d looked forward to it, for reasons that were all to do with fuelling his lust and his nighttime fantasies. Now, the next seven days might turn out to be the longest week of his life.