Chapter One
CAL TOOKa drink of his piss-weak beer and listened with half an ear as his date bitched on about his day. It was easy enough to keep up. The guy was a doctor, nurses didn’t respect him, and had he mentioned he was a doctor? That left Cal free to focus on other things.
Like what thefuckwas the guy’s name again?
“… but enough about me.” The doctor tucked his napkin intohis collar and smoothed it down over his tie. He was a compact man with wiry forearms and a nervous mouth. “I’m here to get away from work for a bit. What do you do?”
Cal ran his finger around the inside of his collar. It was too tight, and it still smelled of prison starch. It had been months, but he didn’t wear shirts often.
“I’m a driver.”
The doctor nodded as though he cared. Cal doubtedit. A poke in the back of his brain reminded him he was supposed to actually try to make a good impression. He shifted on the skinny wooden seat and took another drink of whiskey.
“It’s a family business,” he said. “Limos and stuff.”
“You’ll have to give me your card.” The doctor chuckled and took a sip of his wine. “It would make a hell of an impression if I had you drive me up to the nextbig fund-raiser at the hospital.”
Not as a date, then, Cal thought dryly as he glanced toward the kitchen. If they’d gone to McDonald’s, he could have had something to eat already, and he was pretty sure the doc would be a lot less irritating facedown on a bed. The guy looked like he had a nice enough body under the tight shirts and fussy manners. If nothing else, Cal could give him somethingto do with that mouth other than talk.
Make an effort.He heard El’s voice snap in the back of his head.Act like you’d rather have a second date than sex.
“It’s not cheap,” Cal said. “But people always seem pretty impressed when we pull up.”
Of course that probably had more to do with who was in the car than the low-slung Bentley itself. Evade Inc. wasn’t in the top tier of the UK’s close-protectionindustry, but they were the solid middle-of-the-road option. Soap stars and Japanese businessmen might not need—or be able to afford—a bodyguard, but they could appreciate a driver with muscle and evasive-driving qualifications.
“It’s for charity,” Doc protested light-heartedly. “Surely you can volunteer your services for that.”
The beer was gone. Cal rolled the glass in his fingers and wonderedif another IPA was a good idea. It usually wasn’t. Another beer was how he’d gotten half the scars on his knuckles. Of course, he got the other half when he hadn’t drunk enough beer and he had to listen to someone run their mouth.
Swings and roundabouts, that’s what his dad had always said.
Cal swapped his tumbler for the iced glass of water on the table. It tasted like tap, that tinge of pipeand limescale.
“Let us know,” he said with a lazy grin. Someone who knew him better than Doc would have known that wasn’t a good sign. “We’ll see what we can do.”
Doc looked smug, as if he’d scored something in some game only he was playing. He took a drink of wine, and an awkward silence fell. It felt louder, somehow, against the background lilt of conversation and cutlery.
“So, ah.” Doc reachedup and rubbed his thumb under his ear. “I see you’ve got some ink there.”
“You do,” Cal said. He didn’t want to talk about his tats. It was too fucking hard to talk about them and not get stuck in his past.
The waiter finally brought their plates out—white china too hot to touch and a pinwheel of steak Cal could balance in the middle of his palm. Doc had gone for some sort of broth with flakesof fish floating in it.
“Is this like the wine?” Cal cracked. “We swill it around to see if we like it and then order a full plate?”
Doc looked embarrassed for him. He adjusted his black-framed glasses and leaned over the table.
“No, it’s haute cuisine,” he said sotto voce. “This isn’t Wetherspoon’s.”
Cal caught the waiter’s eye and raised his glass to show he needed another drink. He tooka bite of his rolled steak and heard the familiar deep-bass twang of his ringtone.
“Work,” he excused himself as he wiped his hands on a napkin and reached into his jacket pocket. Not just work, he realized as he fished his phone out. It was El’s number.
“What?” he asked gruffly as he swiped his thumb to take the call.
“Date going well?” El asked.
Cal glanced over the table at Doc. He hadhis napkin pinned to his chest with one hand as he lifted the broth to his mouth. Gran used to eat soup like that. She’d fancied herself classier than the rest of them.
