I SLIPPED the letter into my jeans pocket the moment I saw it, feeling the faint crackle of paper between my fingers. Didn’t need to ask who it was from, the bastard. Bloody Marty. He’d thought I wouldn’t be able to stop Jake from reading it, but I’d left early, laughing off my boyfriend’s surprise and catching the first tube up into town. Beating the weekday Christmas shoppers. Now I was here at Jake’s office, rifling through his mail tray, trying to stop my world from blowing apart.
It had been a stupid thing to do. I knew it. Mental note to self: never agree to see an old boyfriend and, if you have to, whatever you do don’t go drinking with him. Especially not in the Heaven nightclub. God knows what had possessed me anyway. Even though Jake was a good ten years older than Marty, he was far better in bed—by miles. You weren’t supposed to admit that kind of stuff these days, were you? But it was true. Jake always took his time. I liked that. Even now, the thought of him doing the kind of stuff he did with me made my cock push against my fly. I shook my head and tried to ignore it. Couldn’t afford to be slowed down by anything.
Because I liked Jake. I mean really liked. Since I’d met him—early spring at his work of all places—my life had improved beyond all belief. I was off the drugs, almost. I’d gone easy on the drinking, and even the boss was smiling at me more. Now and then. Not only that but, what was rare for me, I hadn’t messed around with anyone apart from Jake since we’d been together.
Not until last week, that is. Bloody bloody Marty. How could I have been so stupid? And what the hell was Jake going to do when he found out? I couldn’t bear the thought of losing him, couldn’t begin to imagine it. Whatever the cost, I had to stop him finding out.
I made a quick search of the rest of the mail on my boyfriend’s desk, found nothing else with Marty’s handwriting. So I sat down on Jake’s executive chair and took out the letter. When I glanced at the clock, it showed 7:30 a.m. I knew Jake usually got here at 7:45, and his secretary arrived at eight. Unless there was something urgent on. Today I hoped there wasn’t. I fingered the letter. I should just shred it, cut the bastard out of our lives, try to find some way of stopping him doing this again, God knows how.
I shouldn’t have read it.
But I had ten minutes before I needed to leg it, and the next thing I knew I was tearing open the envelope, hands trembling, and unfolding the paper inside.
You don’t know me but my name’s Marty Smithson and I used to know Danny. I gather you’re a straight-up kind of a bloke, so I won’t mess with you. You think Danny’s clean from the drugs now, but I think you should know he isn’t—at least not by the amount of skunk he smoked outside Heaven when I met up with him last week. Thursday night, if you’re interested. Don’t know what you were doing then but I sure as hell know you weren’t doing Danny. That’s because I was—I like revisiting old pastures once in a while. For your information, we did it twice—once in the Gents’ and once outside, by the bins. He was up for it both times. Maybe he’s told you all this, though, in the new, civilized, totally honest life he apparently has with you? I certainly hope so.
With every good wish
As I read, I felt my face color up and my hands start shaking. God, the bastard. I could just see his smug smile while he wrote it too. If he were here now, I’d wipe that smile off his face. Big time.