Country Mouse Read Free Page A

wanted the Wellington, so Malcolm headed to the counter, where he ordered, quoted his table number, and then returned to his seat. And couldn’t help imagining what he’d do to Owen. With him. It was always two who played that particular game.
    His BlackBerry buzzed in his pocket, and when he pulled it out he saw a spark of sarcasm in Owen’s eyes. He winked, checked the number and answered, leaning backward, one arm outstretched and placed on the table as if he were pushing himself away from it. “Yes?”
    “Shit, Malcolm, I’m so sorry, the train . . .”
    “Don’t worry about it.” Peter? Paul? John? Something. “Plans have changed; we’ll have to move the meeting.”
    “What? Are you serious? I’ve come up all the way—”
    “I’m not waiting for an hour in some Soho pisshole for a chance to whip your ass red. We need to introduce a little respect into our ‘relationship,’ and we’ll start today. Spend the weekend thinking about how to make amends, and I might talk to you again. And don’t you dare call me before Monday.” He disconnected, slipped the phone back into his pocket and studied Owen for a response. “Looks like I just freed up all weekend.”
    Owen was not looking impressed. “Excellent. Who are you picking up after we’re done eating?”
    Malcolm flushed. “I didn’t say I was going to whip your ass red. That has to be earned.”
    Owen rolled his eyes. “Bullshit.”
    “Bullshit?” It wasn’t his word, and his inflection at the end of it proved it. Owen arched his eyebrows, and his eyes—plain, ordinary brown—were suddenly dark and arresting. Malcolm found himself swallowing.
    “Bollocks,” Owen said smugly. “Tripe. Shite. Waste. What-the-fuck-ever. A dinner? Yeah, sure. I might even kiss you goodnight on the cock. But I’m nobody’s fuck toy, so get that straight right now.”
    Malcolm recovered himself—indignation did that to you. “He’s not my fuck toy—that sod was begging for what I had to dish out.”
    Owen rolled his eyes again. “I’m sure he was. But don’t expect me to beg for a damn thing, okay?”
    He looked like a kitten—jeans, school sweater, little-boy hair—but he was showing the same backbone he’d shown in the bar, and Malcolm liked it. He smiled in admiration, but those brown eyes didn’t soften.
    Malcolm let out a little bit of the starch in his middle. “I swear to you, Yank, if you’re begging by the end of the night, it’s because you really want something you know I’ll give you. Now do you care to tell me about that incestuous little disaster of ex-fuck-all, or are you going to let me make up my own story?”
    Owen looked moodily at the counter, like he could will his Wellington faster, and Malcolm resisted the urge to do the same. It was somehow easier to talk about hard stuff if you weren’t gnawing on the table to stay sane.
    “My mom’s very liberal,” Owen said with a little smile. “She told me my whole life I could kiss any-damn-one I wanted.”
    Malcolm snorted. “And you did.”
    “No!” Owen protested, picking at the table. “No. Just the people that turned my key. But . . .” He sighed. “I like commitment, okay? I like it a lot. And they didn’t. But they still cared about me . And good friends are harder to get than lovers—”
    “Who cheated first?” Malcolm demanded, not wanting to hear him defend them anymore. Besides the Jenny girl, who was hopefully getting fucked raw by who-the-hell-cared, he was pretty sure there were bad guys in these relationships and the Yank kitten wasn’t one of them.
    “Laurie slept with Peter after I’d broken up with her and was dating him,” Owen said, and Malcolm had to cross his eyes to do the math.
    “Yeah?”
    “Yeah.”
    “They’re both wanker fucktards. First class. Stop being so bloody nice to them.”
    Owen shook his head, looking relieved when the waiter started to weave his way from the counter toward their table, carrying a tray with two sodas and