When the next lot was held aloft by the auctioneer’s assistant, a dog head cookie jar, Scott had seen enough.
He downed his glass of champagne, returned it to a silver tray with the cute waiter, then went in search of his elusive date.
He’d been paid for in advance, but he didn’t like the idea of one of his clients locking themselves away, hyperventilating into a toilet with the thought of what he believed hehadto do now he’d paid for the service.
It had happened before.
Men changed their minds.
Guilt or fear or shame made them run.
Five per cent of the men who hired Scott backed out.
Another twenty per cent would tell him during the date that they ‘didn’t do things like this’ or ‘didn’t know why they’d contacted him’ or ‘he wasn’t their usual type’.
Usual type meaning women.
Scott reassured them that nothing had to happen. He was a service, and if all his clients wanted to do was talk through their spiralling thoughts about their sexuality, he was happy to oblige.
Some men left and never returned.
Some men booked him again for another talk.
And some men, 75 per cent of them, ended up with their trousers around their ankles and their cocks in Scott’s mouth.
And when it got to that point, they always left satisfied.
Scott took pride in that.
Any hesitancy dried up as soon as Scott was sliding his skilled, wet mouth up and down their erection.
At a guess, from the brief impression Scott had of Anthony, he’d be one of the 5 per cent that disappeared on him, but he had to search just in case.
Scott picked up another champagne flute from a different waiter as he strode into the house. He arched an eyebrow at the entrance hall, which reminded him of the grand stairway on the Titanic. Huge oak doors led off from the room, one going left and one going right, and behind each one, Scott heard the droning of another auctioneer attempting to sell some kind of head.
A red velvet rope hung across the top of the staircase with a sign hanging from it that said ‘No entry’.
Scott retreated outside, content to search the gardens instead.
There were flowers of every colour, vibrantly blooming, and Scott ran his hand along one of the shaped hedges. Bees buzzed. Butterflies fluttered. One hedge turned to two, then an archway, a patio, a herb garden, a vegetable patch. Barely any other guests could be seen this far into the gardens, and certainly not Anthony with his short brown hair and denim jacket. Scott knew he needed to turn back. It was more likely Anthony was by the food vendors. Wagons and trailers selling coffee, tea, waffles, bacon sandwiches and the vegan equivalent were on the other side of the house. If Anthony was feeling particularly faint, he might’ve bought a bottle of water or be having a lie-down in the first-aid tent set up at the rear of the property.
Scott found himself drawn to a fountain and stood close enough for the spray to touch his skin. His eyes slid shut, and he sighed at the sun on his skin, the slight wind through his hair. He let his shoulders drop and his chin fall, and for a moment, exposed the true level of his exhaustion to the garden around him.
It responded, or at least he did. He heard the water more intensely, felt it cleanse his skin with a fine mist. The wind brought the scent of flowers that smelled of burnt toffee, and he twisted his feet in the gravel to feel the texture of it beneath his soles.
A few years ago, Scott wouldn’t have cared for such things, buttimehad changed him.
Prisontime had changed him.
He opened his eyes, cursing himself because time hadn’t changed everything.
He needed money and had a job to do.
Anthony clearly wasn’t going to find him hidden away in the gardens.
Scott straightened, wiped the spray from his cheek, then turned around.
“Fuck!” Scott gasped, clutching his chest.
