Country Mouse Read Free

wouldn’t even be feeling the three shots. They’d barely have counted as a warm-up during his apprenticeship at the trading desk. But then, he’d learned under Bill “Water Buffalo” Porter, whose idea of a drink after work was to lay waste to at least one bar and one strip club.
    Good old days. He rolled his neck. “Nicer bar, food, or my place?” he asked the wide-eyed Yank he’d somehow acquired in that pisshole.
    The Yank was cute, looked innocent, but Malcolm had really only decided to fuck him when he’d faced the bullies, too. He didn’t like queens in distress, so this was a refreshing change. He was well-built, too, really quite pretty. Not that Malcolm always had the highest standards.
    “Food,” said the Yank. “I’m starving.”
    “Aren’t you young enough to survive on other fuel?” Seriously, where was the spirit of adventure in this man? Sure, he’d been willing to stand up to the proles, but otherwise, he seemed to be milking the “country mouse” bit way too hard.
    The Yank stopped suddenly in the street. “Hi,” he said, his face flat and unfriendly. “My name is Owen Watson. I’m twenty-three, bisexual, and I’ve been in your country exactly seventeen hours. In that time, I’ve eaten some shitty beer and half a shot of vodka. Before I see how serious you are about a gag, I’d really like a fucking burger, if you don’t mind.”
    Oh, this was much better. Malcolm found himself smiling—not a quirk of the lips, but a full, dimple–to-dimple grin. “Do you expect me to pay for that?” he asked, although he fully intended to.
    “Only if you plan to top,” Owen said sourly. “That’s how we do things in the States. If you’re gonna get fucked, you get dinner first.”
    Not a rule Malcolm recognized from his brief stint on Wall Street, but he did like that the kid was making him work for it. Kid. He was barely six-and-a-half years older. “I know just the place. If it’s still there; places in London have recently been opening and closing faster than a cheap whore’s legs.” He glanced around, got his bearings and headed down one of the dark alleys, cutting through the occasional group of tourists braving the cold, but he kept an eye on Owen to make sure he was following. “Bisexual? Aren’t we all a bit? Girlfriend? She the one you’re texting?”
    Owen shook his head. “No, she’s a friend. She had the money, wanted a friend on the trip. I wanted the trip, didn’t mind being a friend.”
    “So,” he asked, still amused, “how bisexual are you?”
    “I’ve had three serious relationships.” Owen sounded resentful, as if wondering who Malcolm was to ask him to quantify. “Two female, one male. They all ended well, we’re still friends, but my ex-guy is dating my ex-girl, and Jenny’s currently getting banged by the guy she had before me. Are we all caught up now?”
    “Serious? And you’re still friends? You’re the forgiving kind.” Or a pushover. Or possibly a really well-adjusted kid. It would be interesting to find out which.
    “I’m all about the forgiveness,” Owen said, and Malcolm couldn’t tell if he was being bitter or not.
    “Well, nothing to forgive about this place.” Malcolm pointed at the Soho branch of Gourmet Burger Kitchen, then opened the door for Owen and let him pass through first. So what, he could be chivalrous to a guy too.
    The Asian waiter eyed them for moment, then led them to a table when Malcolm indicated with a hand signal he wanted one for two.
    The waiter gave them the whole “We’re family here” spiel and asked if they’d been there before, but Malcolm waved him off after the drinks order. No more alcohol; he did want all his facilities ready and sharp to deal with the Yank in the most satisfying manner possible. For both of them. Wouldn’t do to miss a hint because he was pissed, or even a bit flaky.
    He decided quickly on his favorite—the Bleu Cheese burger—and then watched Owen study the menu. Owen