Page 3 of Tell No One
Well, yeah, he did. He’d already sussed that out. It had to be something to do with sex, but what? For a thousand pounds, did he care? Wasn’t he always moaning to himself about being bored with his life? There wasn’t much he hadn’t tried sex-wise, thanks to a series of one night—or shorter—hook-ups. Though he wasn’t into the extremes. No fisting, watersports, breath play, bondage, BDSM in general, having anything stuck up his dick, or anything other than a cock or a normal-sized dildo stuck up his arse…Christ.There was a lot he wasn’t into, but all he had to do was say no, didn’t he?
Am I that naïve?
So, it was a risk and he’d think some more over whether he wanted to take it.
When the guy paid the bill, he tucked a twenty-pound note into Tag’s shirt pocket. “Just for you. Make yourself look nice for the party.”
Unfortunately, eagle-eyed, vindictive bastard, Bernard the Creep, the pub manager Justin’s boyfriend, and a jealous, fucking arsehole of a dickwad, had seen what the guy did, and the next thing Tag knew, he was being sacked for not sharing tips.
“You know the rules,” Justin told him.
“But you didn’t give me the chance to share it,” Tag protested. Though he had walked past the tip jar and not put it in. Nor had he intended to, but that was beside the point.
“Collect your wages at the end of the night and you’re done.”
Tag really wished he could have chucked a pint all over JustinandBernard, and flounced out there and then, but he couldn’t. Justin took the twenty pounds off him and put it in the jar. A pain started up in Tag’s heart but he kept his feelings hidden. Life was sometimes shitty, but things would get better. He’d look for another job tomorrow. Justin had been itching for a reason to get rid of him, purely because Bernard didn’t like him, and it hurt because Tag did a good job. He was friendly, worked hard and never complained. He didn’t know what more he could do.
At the end of his shift, when everything was cleaned up, he went to see Justin. His wages were handed over, but not his share of the tips. Tag didn’t bother objecting. He’d nicked twenty quid out of Bernard’s wallet. Served him right. If Tag could have got at Justin’s, he’d have taken money from him too because he’d still lost out on tips.
On the bus home, Tag was torn between being pissed off he had no job and curiosity over what this party was about, along with why his shoe size had been needed. He was conveniently ignoring that having a big cock seemed to be a requirement too. Now he’d lost his job, the thousand pounds couldn’t be used on studio space. Instead, it would have to pay his rent until he found somewhere else to work.
If he ended up needing money, there was always a fallback position and that wasn’t selling himself. His principles about theft were more fluid. Sleight of hand was a skill, except he wished he’d never been made to learn how to do it and that his life had taken a different path.
He got off the bus on the high street and headed towards the HMO, house of multiple occupation, where he rented the smallest of four rooms, the only one downstairs. Four people and their occasional girlfriends and boyfriends shared a kitchen and two bathrooms. Tag cleaned the downstairs bathroom because otherwise he wasn’t sure he could have used it. Since the others were too lazy to go upstairs to take a piss, what he thought of ashisbathroom was used more than he’d have liked. But the place was cheap and convenient, and until Tag could afford better, which seemed a long way off, he was stuck.
Tag kicked off his shoes, picked them up and unlocked the door to his room. There was enough light shining in from the lamppost to see someone sitting on his bed. Tag turned to run, only to find his way blocked. A hand clamped over his mouth and he was bundled further into his room with his heart trying to get out of his chest. The shoes fell from his hands.Who’s found me? What did I do to give myself away? What are they going to do?
The man on the bed stood up. “Keep quiet, sit down and listen. We’re not here to hurt you.”
Words that gave Tag a glimmer of hope this might not be what he’d thought it was. The door was closed, the light switched on and he was pushed down onto the rickety chair where he usually slung his clothes. He was surprised it didn’t collapse beneath him the way he slumped on it. He thought about yelling for help, but was pretty sure everyone was out celebrating a housemate’s birthday. So what did these guys want? Had Bernard noticed his wallet was twenty pounds light and sent his friends after him? But Bernard wouldn’t have friends like these two. They were hard men in smart suits, the sort Tag would have crossed the road to avoid.
The bruiser-type who’d stopped him leaving stood with his back to the door, his arms crossed.
The other, a posh-sounding blond, stood in front of Tag. “How much were you offered?”
This was about what had happened in the pub? He’d been told not to tell anyone, but these two already knew so Tag had no incentive to lie. “A thousand pounds, maybe more.”
“Fallen on your feet, haven’t you, rent boy? More like on your back. And your knees.”
Posh Gitwas pushing Tag’s buttons. “I’m not a rent boy.”
The scoff of disbelief had Tag clenching his fists.
“Why else would you be paid so much to go to a party?”
A party that Tag didn’t want to go to anymore. He wasn’t a violent guy but he wanted to punch this smirking fucker. What the hell was this about?
“I want to offer you a job.”
Tag gasped in shock. Had any of this evening actually happened? He’d probably been knocked down by a bus on the way to work and was dreaming he’d been offered a huge amount of money to go to a weird party where shoe and cock size mattered and these guys were not in his room offering him a job when he’d just lost his.
But they were.
“Doing what?” It didn’t hurt to ask.
“Going to a party.”
Tag almost laughed. Then he put two and two together, after a fashion. “What do you want me to do at this party?”
