Author: Anna Martin
Category: LGBT
Go to read content：https://onlinereadfreenovel.com/anna-martin/page,4,549652-anna_martins_british_boys_box_set_my_prince_-_the_impossible_boy_-_cricket.html
The gala was being held in the National Museum of Scotland, somewhere George had never bothered to visit the whole time he’d been living in Edinburgh. He was regretting that now, and snuck off at one point to go and have a look in the Natural World Gallery. The room was impossibly tall and had animals suspended in mid-air all the way up the four-story building. A giant T. rex skeleton guarded the entrance.
George sighed and checked his watch again. It was only 9:30 p.m.—they’d be here for hours more yet.
Someone tapped him on the shoulder, and George whirled around, thinking one of his senior managers had caught him looking bored.
Then he almost, almost, lost his cool.
“Hello, George.”
Alex was definitely not wearing a tux from ASDA.
He looked good, better than George remembered, and he remembered plenty from that night back in September. Alex’s hair was shorter now, not quite as curled as before, and he had a soft, fuzzy beard. His blue eyes sparkled, and a dimple puckered in his cheek as he smiled at George’s obvious bewilderment.
George nodded. “Your Highness,” he said, and Alex’s smile faded.
“Well, this is awkward,” Alex said with a self-effacing laugh.
“Sorry. That was a shitty thing to say.”
“What, using my official title? I’d say I’m used to it, but I’m not, really.”
Silence fell between them, growing more awkward by the nanosecond.
“Should I have not come over?” Alex asked. He too held a slim champagne flute, and rolled it between his fingers back and forth, back and forth, making the contents fizz up.
“No. I mean, yes. I….” George knew he was flustered, was sure there was a flush on his cheeks. Stupid fucking cheap suit was making him hot. “I’ve kind of spent most of this year regretting not taking your number.”
“I didn’t offer it,” Alex said mildly.
“I didn’t ask.”
“No. You didn’t.”
Another awkward silence fell, then Alex reached into the inside pocket of his impeccably tailored jacket and pulled out a light grey business card.
“This is my number,” he said, the soft smile and dimple returning. “I’d like you to call me.”
George nodded, took the card, and slipped it into the back pocket of his trousers. “Thanks.”
“I hope you do,” Alex said, then started to move away.
“Alex,” George said. His hand shot out and gripped Alex’s arm, probably too tightly, too intimately, for this setting. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Tell you what?”
“Who….” George felt stupid then. “Who you are.”
Alex laughed. “It was a one-night stand, George. I’m not a massive dick. I don’t use my family as a pickup line.”
“Oh.”
He smiled again, his eyes a little sad now. Then he reached up and touched George’s cheek with his knuckles, very briefly. And walked away.
For the rest of the evening, George fought an ongoing battle with his erection, which was happily threatening to chub up, and the temptation to search the cavernous room for Alex. For the event, the different features that usually stood in the museum’s main hall were pushed to the sides or moved away altogether, leaving plenty of space for several hundred guests.
George caught sight of him a few times, always at a distance, never close enough for Alex to notice his creepy, stalkerish staring, thank God. The guy had been George’s main spank bank material for the first part of the fucking year, and now he was sauntering around, looking far sexier than he had any right to, smiling and laughing and being an altogether great guy.
Fuck him.
By the end of the evening, George was tipsy, not drunk; he’d made sure to stay out of that territory while his boss was around. The last thing he wanted to do was be that guy, the guy who got drunk at charity galas for children.
People started filing out of the museum at eleven, and for some reason it took forever for George to collect his coat from the concierge and join the enormous queue outside for a taxi.
The humidity had broken and the rain had thundered down earlier in the evening. Now there was a light drizzle falling, enough to make George decide against walking home. He didn’t want to get soaked through.
“Are you following me?”
George whirled around, frowning at Alex and his enormous golf umbrella that he held over George so he didn’t get quite so wet as he waited.
“No,” George said, affronted.
“I’m only teasing,” Alex said. He was still smiling. “Not going on to town, then?”
“No,” George said again. “I have to be in work tomorrow.”
“Really? It’s Saturday tomorrow.”
“I know that. I have a really important project I’m working on, and it has to be delivered, so I’m taking the overtime.”
“Oh,” Alex said. “Fair enough.”
They were quiet for a moment, and the queue edged forward.
Then it dawned on George.
“Were you hoping for—”
“No,” Alex said, laughing again. He did that a lot. Smiled a lot, laughed a lot. It was weird. “I gave you my number because I want to see you again, George. Maybe take you out for dinner or a drink. I don’t know. Some social activity before we try to fuck each other’s brains out again.”
“Oh.”
Alex’s hand landed on his arm and squeezed gently. “I’d like to repeat our last night together,” he said in a low voice, “but maybe on different terms.”
“Like what?”
“Dating terms?”
“You want to date me?”
“I’d like to try it, yeah,” Alex said, grinning. “You’re interesting to me. And very hot. It’s a good combination.”
They were almost at the front of the queue now, and the taxis were moving up toward them.
“Anyway,” Alex said, “after you.”
A member of the museum’s staff team was organising the taxis, and he held open the door for George.
“Where to, sir?”
“Uh, Leith,” George said. “Just off Leith Walk.” He turned to Alex. “I’ll….”
“Call me?”
George laughed. “Sure.”
He hopped into the cab, and it was pulling away before he had a chance to say anything else. The rain had stopped, but the cab driver still had his wipers going, and they squeaked obnoxiously over the glass. George felt itchy again, in a different way now.
He pulled his phone from his pocket and dug out Alex’s card. It was simple: a textured grey card, Alex’s name printed on it, his phone number and e-mail. Just “Alex van Amsberg.” No mention of his royal title at all.
George plugged the number into his phone and saved it, then felt flustered with the thought of sending a message. It was too soon. It was stupid.
Hi. This is George. So you have my number.
Send.
Done.
He turned the phone over and over in his hands, feeling stupid, feeling a knot in his stomach for reasons he didn’t quite understand.
I thought you were going to call me?
I will. Wanted you to know who it was when I called, tho. You might not answer unknown numbers.
That’s a reasonable explanation. Are you home yet?
Almost. You?
Yeah. I would have walked, but then I wouldn’t have had an excuse to wait with you.
George’s breath caught in his throat.
“Where to, mate?” the driver asked.
“Anywhere along here.” The rain had stopped, and there was a cut-through he could take from the main road back to the house.
“Nine forty, please.”
George handed him a tenner and waved away any change. He was tired—he could feel the dragging behind his eyes that told him he needed sleep, and plenty of it, before he went in to work in the morning.
Still, he brushed his teeth in the horrible mouldy bathroom before going to
bed, and layered up to try to stay warm through the night. Before turning off the light, George turned his phone over and over in his hands, wondering what to say. It was his turn to text back. In the end, he just said:
Good night, Alex.
He didn’t have to wait long for Alex to call. They had exchanged a few messages through the week, an easy back and forth, and George quickly realised Alex was very easy to tease. It was cute.
George had missed a call from Alex while he was at work; the first chance for him to return it was as he dashed through the busy, rainy streets on Friday afternoon.
“What, do you think I don’t already have plans for Friday night?” George asked and Alex huffed in response.
“Do you?”
“I might.”
“Fine. I respect the fact that you have an active and stimulating social life. Do you want me to pick you up?”
George picked up his pace—it was cold out, and his hot lunch was going to be not hot by the time he got back to the office.
“It depends. Where are we going?”
“I’m not telling you.”
Alex’s voice was warm, and George could hear the smile in it.
“Well, if you want to take me to Glasgow, then yeah, pick me the fuck up. If we’re going down to the Old Town, then I can walk or get a bus.”
“Okay, I’m picking you up. Leith Walk, right?”
“Are you stalking me?”
George jogged up the steps to his office and pressed his security pass against the barrier, waited for it to beep, then pushed through.
“No, I’m not stalking you. When you got the taxi, after the benefit, remember? You said Leith Walk.”
“Right.”
“So, what number?”
George paused, then rattled off the address.
“Great. Can you be ready for eight?”
“Yeah. No problem.”
“Okay. I’ll see you later.”
“Later,” George echoed and ended the call.
Since the company was small, the owners decided to use a shared office space rather than owning one. It was barely worth it anyway, for a dozen employees, so they had a corner of a floor in a huge building.
It was Friday, so the office was much quieter than during the week. Half the people on this floor either didn’t work Fridays, worked from home, finished at lunchtime, or plain didn’t show up.
George liked his space in this office. He had a desk in the corner, next to the window, and the setup meant no one could see what was on his computer screen unless they were standing next to him. He wasn’t quite bold enough to look at porn at work, like he knew some people did, but if he spent an hour or so browsing the Internet, no one noticed or cared.
He carefully pried open the plastic box that held his jacket potato, which had some cheese, bacon, and mayonnaise sludge melting into it. It looked disgusting, sure, but the sandwich shop just down the road from the office did the best jacket potatoes in Edinburgh, he was sure of it.
Since it was Friday, and no one was around to care, George brought up the BBC Sport website and kicked back, happy to skive off work for a little while longer.
Alex hovered over the Send button for a second, then pressed it.
Outside. I think. Scared to knock in case I have the wrong house.
He definitely had the right house, but he didn’t want to embarrass George by going up to the door. He got the impression he wouldn’t be invited in, which would be awkward, so he left the engine running and waited.
A few seconds later, his phone buzzed.
Coming.
Alex made the dirty joke in his head and watched the door as George burst through it, laughing and making rude gestures to whoever was inside. He was dressed nicely, but still casual, like Alex had told him: dark jeans, a white T-shirt with a plaid lumberjack shirt open over the top, and a sporty jacket.
“Hey,” he said as he opened the door and beamed at Alex.
“Hey. Hop in.”
He did and slammed the door closed. “Pretty sweet ride.”
“Thank you.”
“You know I have a Golf too? I know this is a new model. But yeah.”
“Oh?” Alex pulled away from the house and shot George a smile. “What have you got?”
“It’s a really old Mark Three.”
“Ah, a classic. I love Golfs. Wouldn’t ever drive anything else.”
“Same. My dad—did I tell you my dad owns a garage?”
“No, but that’s cool.”
“Yeah, him and my brother run it now. Maguire and Sons. Anyway. He bought it as pretty much a wreck, and we fixed it up.”
“That’s awesome.”
“Are you going to tell me where we’re going tonight?”
Alex laughed. “You are….” He shook his head. “Completely terrible.”
“I know.”
“It’s not far from here.”
“So we are going to the Old Town. You should have let me get the bus.”
Alex didn’t say anything. He wasn’t going to let George get the fucking bus to their date. George hadn’t mentioned his car before tonight, and even if he had, Alex wouldn’t have let him drive. He was planning on leaving the car in a car park overnight, or on the street if he could find a parking space. The Old Town was fairly quiet; he wasn’t worried about leaving it out.
He found a space near the university building, and they walked up the Royal Mile close to each other, but not holding hands.
“Where the fuck are we going?” George asked as Alex turned them down a dark, winding alley that had incredibly steep steps at the bottom.
“Shh. It’s a secret.”
They reached a red door at the bottom of the alley that was set back into an alcove. A phone was a mounted on the wall next to the door. Alex picked it up, waited for it to click, then said, “Table for two, the name’s van Amsberg.”
“Thanks. I’ll send someone up for you.”
He was watching George’s intrigued, amused face the whole time, and reached over to brush his hand against George’s while they waited. Curiously, George didn’t ask any more questions, even when the red door swung open and a guy wearing 1920s style clothing looked them over.
“Come in,” he said and shut the door behind them.
Chapter Four
They sat at the bar, watching the bartenders mix drinks.
“How the fuck did you find out about this place?” George asked.
“Word of mouth, like most people.”
The bar was set up like an old speakeasy. A blues band played on a dais in the corner, providing good, but not too loud, music. All the staff were dressed in that same old-style look: the girls with their hair in victory rolls, red lipstick, tattoos on show; the guys in pants with braces and white shirts, the sleeves rolled up to their elbows.
Because of Edinburgh’s strange city architecture, the bar was situated in a series of arches under one of the huge bridges that bisected the Old Town. The walls were old, old stone, and there were low, exposed beams, bare lightbulbs, and lots of candlelight. The atmosphere was amazing, and Alex was incredibly pleased he’d decided to take Doug’s suggestion of bringing George here.
“What do you want to drink?” he asked.
“Do they do beer?”
“Oh, come on,” Alex laughed. He reached over and squeezed George’s knee experimentally. George didn’t flinch, so Alex left his hand there. “This place has some of the best cocktails in the whole country. One of the bartenders was a European cocktail-making champion. You have to try something.”
“Okay. Is there like a drinks list or something?”
One of the bartenders leaned forward, neatly interrupting their conversation with a smile. He wore a flat cap over his short hair and had a very dark bushy beard and heavy eyebrows. It looked insanely good on him.
“Hey, I’m Danny. What can I get you guys?” he asked, his voice rich with local flavour.
“George doesn’t drink cocktails,”
Alex said, squeezing George’s knee again.
“Ah. Okay. What do you drink?”
“I like beer,” George said tentatively. “Like craft beers, IPAs, that sort of thing.”
Danny nodded. “No problem. Do you prefer whiskey or rum?”
“Uh… rum, I guess.”
Something twisted in Alex’s stomach as Danny grinned and winked at George, then turned to start mixing him something. In the background, the band switched to a more upbeat sound, and a few girls got up from their low tables to dance.
He turned his attention back to Danny, who was free pouring liquor into a tin cocktail shaker, adding lime and something else from behind the bar, then slamming a glass over the top to shake it up. Instead of serving the drink in a martini glass, he poured it into a low, squat tumbler and left it unadorned of any fancy toppings.
“Try that,” he said, pushing it across the bar.
Alex watched as George sipped it tentatively, and then as his eyebrows shot up. “Wow. That’s… really good.”
“Thank you. And for you?”
“Do I get the special treatment too?” Alex said, knowing he was flirting. He was going to test the waters, see what sort of reaction it got from George.
“Of course. What’s your poison?”
“Tom Collins, normally.”
“Got it.”
Danny turned away again and started mixing.
“You want to try this?” George asked, pushing the glass at Alex, almost forcibly bringing attention back to himself. Alex felt his stomach jump a little with victory.
“Sure.”
He took a small sip and grinned. “Wow,” he echoed. “That really is good.”
It was a mellow, almost spicy, sour drink that didn’t feel too dragging and alcoholic. It had a faint orangey tang, which Alex liked a lot. His drink—whatever twist on a Tom Collins Danny had come up with—was served in one of those jam jars with the handle on the side. Stuffed full of ice and mint leaves, it was much more fussy than George’s straight-up.
And it had a straw.