Jay took great care with his false identities. Each one was tied to a real birth certificate and National Insurance number, generally belonging to someone who had either died or moved abroad. Then it was backed up with as complete an online profile as he could manage. None of them had any connections to his own legal ID.
This identity—Owen Ingram—wasn’t a London resident. Jay had booked him a hotel room in Soho, not far from his impending rendezvous with Anya Clay; in addition to backing up his cover, it made for a good place to prepare.
Jay owned exactly one suit, which he’d thought was fairly decent until he met Moran—who, at present, was locked into a disapproving orbit around Jay as he stood in front of the room’s full-length mirror, dressed in his shirt and trousers.
“I know for a fact you can afford a tailor,” Moran said.
Jay glared at him. “Tailors ask too many awkward questions.” A few well-placed safety pins had resolved the biggest issue with the trouser hems, but the shirt was another problem entirely. “This isn’t going to work, Moran.”
“You’ve gone undercover before.” Moran was entirely too calm. “You were undercover when we met.”
“As an assistant,” Jay shot back. “Nobody notices assistants.” More quietly, he added: “People don’t … like me. Generally.”
Moran fussed with the collar of Jay’s shirt and said, “I like you,” easy as anything.
In that moment, all Jay could think to say was, “Why?”
Smiling fondly, Moran stroked the backs of his fingers briefly beneath Jay’s jaw. “Because when I put a knife to your throat, you told me to go fuck myself.”
Jay scoffed. “There’s something wrong with you.”
“You’re not the first person to point that out.” Moran lifted one of Jay’s wrists and fiddled with the shirt cuff. “Sleeves are too long.”
“Because I’m short.” Jay tugged his arm free of Moran’s grip. “This is hopeless. Clay is going to clock me the moment she sees me.”
“She won’t,” Moran replied—not a platitude, but a statement of fact.
“What makes you so sure?”
“Because she thinks she can.” Moran took Jay’s wrist again and unbuttoned the cuff. “She believes she can’t be wrong, so she’ll take you at face value. Her own preconceptions will do the work for you—all you need to be is what she expects.” He tightened the cuff to the second button, up around Jay’s wrists, then circled around to the other side and repeated the process. It made the sleeves puff out a bit, but at least the cuffs weren’t dangling around his fingertips any more. “You’re going to be fine.”
“Easy for you to say.”
Moran raised an eyebrow at him. “Meaning?”
“Meaning everyone in the world is lined up to suck your cock.” Jay gestured vaguely at Moran’s … well, everything. “You’re like if James Bond fucked men.”
“James Bond was in the navy. He definitely fucked men.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I do.” Moran’s fingers were on Jay’s face again, gently turning his head until they could look each other in the eyes. “I was also the gay kid at a boys’ boarding school.”
Even the briefest consideration of what that meant left a sour taste at the back of Jay’s throat. At least at his state school, Jay had the benefit of anonymity. He was the weird kid, the quiet one, but none of that made him a target—and there were others in his class who were actually out, enough of them that the bullies could only get away with so much.
But ten years earlier, in an institution that quietly prided itself on a long history of vicious abuse, surrounded by other posh boys perpetually on the lookout for anyone vulnerable, anyone different …
Moran might as well have survived a prison yard.
Only half-joking, Jay said, “How’d you make it out alive?”
With a small, unsettling smile, Moran replied, “I learned how to hide. How to read people. And eventually, I made myself too dangerous for them to hurt.” Then he blinked, shook his head a little, and retrieved Jay’s tie from where it hung across the back of the room’s single armchair.
When he handed it over, expectant, Jay said, “I don’t know how to tie that.”
Moran stared at him. “I’ve seen you wear a tie.”
“It was elastic.” Jay pointed at the tie in Moran’s hand. “That one came with the suit. I’ve never worn it.”
Moran let out a resigned sigh and moved in close behind Jay, arms encircling him as he slung the tie around his neck.
He was warm and solid against Jay’s back; Jay instinctively leaned into the contact, even as he said, “What are you doing?”
“I’ve only ever tied a tie from this angle.” The movement of Moran’s hands was quick and practised, looping the tie into a simple, yet flawless knot. As he drew the tie up tight to Jay’s collar, Jay hummed and rocked suggestively against him. “Stop that,” Moran grumbled in his ear, without much conviction.
Jay turned his head and nuzzled the underside of Sebastian’s jaw, stubble rasping against his cheek. “Still worried about ruining my innocence?”
“Little bit.”
Jay chuckled, and Moran stepped back to fetch Jay’s jacket from the foot of the bed. Jay took it from him and shrugged it on; it was a little big in the shoulders, but the sleeves weren’t as bad as the shirt’s had been.
Moran made a quiet, contemplative noise. “Could be worse. When you sit down, sit on the back of your jacket so it doesn’t ride up. It won’t look so big on you.”
Jay turned back toward the mirror. For a long time, in the years before transition, he’d looked at his own reflection and seen someone else looking back at him. Someone who moved when he did, spoke the words he wanted to say, but somehow—on a fundamental, horrifying level—wasn’t him.
It was different now. These days, he looked in the mirror and not only recognised the man he saw there, but liked him. Even in a bad suit.
Drawing a deep breath, he said, “You really think I can do this?”
“I do.” Moran stood behind Jay and brushed his hands across his shoulders. “Clay is smart, but she’s never worked in television before. SFV knows that, too, and they’ll use it to their advantage. They’ll tell her nothing. Tell her it’s better to leave the complicated decisions to them.” His hands moved down to squeeze Jay’s biceps. “So you’re going to offer her the one thing she desperately wants.”
“Control.”
“Exactly.” Moran turned Jay to face him. “People are emotional creatures. We make the decisions we do because they feel good. So don’t tell her what to think—tell her what to feel.” Then he reached into his pocket. “Just to be sure, though, I brought a present.”
He took Jay’s hand and deposited a small device into it. It was shaped like an earplug, with a small antenna—a military-grade covert earpiece.
“A bit more discreet than a headset,” Moran said. “I can be on the phone with you the whole time you’re with Clay.”
Jay’s knees buckled a little under the wave of relief that crashed through him. “You fucking bastard. Why didn’t you lead with that?”
Moran smiled, unperturbed by Jay’s ire. “Had to build up your confidence, first. Couldn’t let you walk into that meeting expecting me to do all the talking for you.”
“I hate you.” Jay held the earpiece back out to Moran. “Help me put it in?”
Moran nodded and took the earpiece, gently tipping Jay’s head to the side as he tucked it into place. It was a little uncomfortable, but no more so than a noise-cancelling earbud. Once the earpiece was in, Moran bent to press a gentle kiss to the bared length of Jay’s neck.
Vengeful impulse compelled Jay to pitch his voice up high and whimper, “Oh, but sir! I have to get back to class!”
Moran shoved him away, groaning with disgust, and Jay cackled.
Checking her phone over her morning coffee, Anya Clay discovered—much to her annoyance—that her agent had booked in a last-minute lunch meeting with one Owen Ingram of the Canadian Film Commission.
At the appointed time, Anya made her way to Eliot House. It was a members-only club that operated out of a converted town-house in Soho; membership was restricted to those in the arts, which made it one of the few places Anya could have a quiet meal without any requests to sign a book or take a photo. The interior of the club was densely packed with an eclectic collection of fine art and antique furniture, the dominant style shifting from one room to the next. The rooftop terrace was an airy, casual dining area occupied at present by two film stars, a prominent theatre director, and an up-and-coming screenwriter currently on the phone with his agent.
There was also a man sitting at the table Anya’s agent had reserved—a young man, slim and boyish, possessing a certain focused energy despite his slightly rumpled appearance.
Approaching the table, Anya said, “Mr. Ingram?”
The man bounced to his feet and nodded; after a moment, he reached out to shake her hand. “Ms. Clay,” he said, in a soft, bland RP accent. “Delighted to meet you.”
As they sat, Anya said, “So you’re Canadian?”
“My mother is,” Ingram replied. “I’m a dual citizen. Grew up here in the UK, but I do most of my work in Canada.”
“And what exactly is the Canadian Film Commission?”
Clearly accustomed to fielding this question, Ingram said, “We work with the Canadian government to attract foreign film and television productions.”
Anya could already feel the headache forming. “If you’re here to license Grimpeak—”
“Oh, I already know about the deal with SFV,” Ingram interrupted, unconcerned.
Anya’s mouth snapped shut, and she eyed him with a wary glare.
“People talk,” Ingram went on, by way of explanation. “Especially in this industry. Especially at parties.”
A server came by their table: feminine in appearance, but a little on the tall side, broad in the shoulder and narrow in the hip. Anya ordered a glass of white wine. Ingram simply requested a refill of his water glass.
“Poor dear,” Anya said, smirking, as soon as the server was out of earshot. “You can always tell, can’t you?”
For a second or two, Ingram’s face went utterly blank. His eyes darted over Anya’s shoulder, toward the departing server.
Then he blinked, and his expression shifted to confused curiosity. “What do you mean?”
Anya shrugged it off; it was never worth it to explain the joke. “If you’re not here for adaptation rights, why are you here?”
“Because we want you to shoot Grimpeak in Canada.” Ingram seemed relieved to finally launch into the sales pitch. “Big productions create jobs. They keep Canadian talent in Canada, so we don’t lose it to the States. And there are generous tax incentives, not just from the federal government, but also from some of the provincial—”
Anya cut him off with a dismissive wave. “You’re hardly the only country to offer tax breaks. And Canadians are too expensive.” She leaned back in her chair, already bored. “We’re looking at Romania. The labour is much cheaper.”
Ingram faltered, briefly speechless; then he rallied, as if he’d suddenly remembered something important. “Let me show you something.” He picked up his phone and, after a few seconds of typing, slid it across the table so Anya could see the photo he’d pulled up on the screen.
It was Grimpeak Eyrie, exactly as Anya had envisioned it: a great dark mountain mantled in pure white snow, spearing up into a vivid blue sky, nestled in the depths of an untouched forest wilderness.
Entranced, Anya said, “Where is this?”
“Mount Assiniboine, in the Canadian Rockies.” Ingram tapped one fingertip against the screen. “When I first saw these mountains, do you know what I thought? I thought, ‘this is just like Wings of Grimpeak.’” There was an intent look in his eyes. “I believe this is the only place on Earth that can do justice to your books. And if you work with us, I guarantee a whole new generation of fans will be just as enchanted as I was.”
Anya’s mind reeled with the possibilities, her eyes drawn once more to the photo—to the image that could have been plucked from her own imagination.
“All right,” she said. “Tell me about these tax incentives.”
Jay stepped out onto the street and said, “I’ll be in touch—I need to get some paperwork put together.”
Clay was smiling as she followed behind him. “I look forward to hearing from you, Mr. Ingram.”
They parted ways there; Clay stepped into the private car that was waiting for her, and Jay strode away down the street. As Clay’s car pulled away from the curb, a nervous exhale escaped Jay’s throat.
“Well,” Moran remarked dryly in his ear. “You got through that whole meeting without biting anyone. I’m proud of you.”
Jay suppressed a laugh; keeping his voice low, he replied, “It was a near thing.”
“Sounds like she’s hooked, though.” Moran’s voice was warm, approving. “Good work.”
“We’re not done yet,” Jay reminded him. “We still need her to pay the bribe.”
“Which won’t be hard, now that she’s emotionally invested. It’s just a problem to solve—a little money to cut through the red tape.”
Jay paused at the corner, checking for traffic, and glanced sidelong across the street. Waiting at the street crossing was a large, burly man who looked suspiciously like Ellis Reeve.
Quickly averting his gaze, Jay crossed and kept walking. The back of his neck prickled, tension building in his shoulders; he slipped his phone from his pocket and turned on the front camera, using the viewfinder on his screen to check over his shoulder.
Reeve was there, a dozen or so metres behind.
“I think I’m being followed,” Jay murmured, just loud enough for the earpiece to pick up.
“What?”
Jay kept walking and resisted the urge to run. “Reeve is right behind me. He might’ve been watching Eliot House.”
“I’m on my way.”
“Don’t,” Jay snapped quietly. “If Reeve sees you, it’ll blow my cover.”
He paused at the next street crossing and turned, just barely spotting Reeve out the corner of his eye. By all appearances, he’d stopped to read the menu in a restaurant window.
“Jay.” There was a strained note in Moran’s voice. It took Jay a long moment to recognise it for what it was: fear. “If Reeve decides you’re a threat, he won’t go to the police. He’ll handle it himself—you’ll fucking disappear. Understand?”
“Reeve has no reason to think I’m a threat,” Jay pointed out, although he didn’t quite believe it himself. The light changed; he hurried across the street. “For all we know, he follows everyone who meets with Clay.”
Moran was breathing so loudly it broke through the earpiece’s noise cancellation, harsh and ragged. “Jay—”
“Where are you?”
“Still in the hotel.”
“I’ll meet you there.” Before Moran had a chance to argue, Jay went on: “It’s where Reeve would expect me to go. Don’t let him see you.”
“Okay,” Moran said, breathless, “okay. Stay on busy streets. No shortcuts.”
“I will,” Jay promised.
“And don’t hang up. Stay on the line.”
Jay didn’t dare look behind him, but he could feel Reeve’s eyes on his back. “Okay.”
Jay crossed the hotel foyer at a leisurely pace, even as instinct screamed at him to bolt for cover. He half expected Reeve to jump into the lift with him at the last second, but the doors closed without incident, leaving him alone inside.
After a brief ride up to his floor, Jay hurried down the hall and unlocked the door to the room.
A hand darted through the half-open door and dragged Jay inside. He opened his mouth to yell, but a second hand covered his mouth—gently.
“Ssh,” Moran whispered, eyes wide and neurotic. He closed the door, putting himself between it and Jay.
Jay backed off, deeper into the room, heart still pounding. Something was wrong. Moran stood with his eye to the peephole; he reached into his pocket and withdrew a small folding knife, flicking it open. His knuckles went white around the hilt.
There was a lethal tension in every muscle of Moran’s body. He was going to kill the next person who approached that door; it might be Reeve, or it might be some unsuspecting maid.
Wound tight as Moran was, Jay had no idea what would happen if he touched him. Softly, careful not to startle him, Jay called out, “Sebastian?”
Moran didn’t move. It was as if he hadn’t heard Jay at all.
Jay cleared his throat and said, more firmly, “Sebastian. I’m okay.”
That, at least, got a reaction out of Moran; he turned his head slightly, a brief acknowledgement that he’d been spoken to, but stayed at his self-appointed post in front of the door.
Jay took a deep breath. A barked “Moran!” came out of him on the exhale, short and sharp like a drill sergeant.
Moran‘s response was pure military reflex. His spine straightened in one sudden movement, and he whipped around to stare at Jay. There was a glassy haze in his eyes and distant confusion on his face, as if he weren’t sure where he was.
Jay held out his hand. “Give me the knife.”
Moving automatically, Moran flipped the knife in his grip and held it out to Jay, hilt-first. His fingers shook, a fine tremor that made the hinge of the knife rattle in his hand.
Jay took it from him, folded it carefully, and shoved it in his pocket. Then he grabbed Moran’s wrist and pulled, dragging him away from the door, toward the armchair. He pressed down on Moran’s shoulder with his other hand, urging him to sit.
After only a token resistance, Sebastian slumped into the chair. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, head hanging low. The tremor in his fingers had spread to the rest of his body, shaking him apart under Jay’s hands.
Dread and worry sat heavily at the bottom of Jay’s lungs. He was gripping Sebastian’s wrist too tight; slowly, he uncurled his fingers and pulled away.
“Don’t,” Sebastian gasped. His hand darted out and clamped down on Jay’s forearm—not quite hard enough to hurt, but nearly there.
“Okay,” Jay breathed, “okay,” and settled on the floor in front of the chair.
Sebastian dragged in slow, controlled breaths as his eyes flitted around the room, focusing for long moments on each detail in turn. His thumb rubbed in slow, intent circles against Jay’s forearm—like it was important, like the touch was something he needed to focus on. Long minutes passed, and the trembling in his body began to ease.
His gaze drifted to where his fingers were still clamped around Jay’s arm. With a sharp inhale, he let go and sat bolt upright in the chair.
“Sorry,” he choked out, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t—I should go—”
He braced his hands on the arms of the chair, as if to stand, and panic clutched at Jay’s throat. Sebastian wasn’t in any state to go anywhere, especially if “anywhere” had other people in it. He could not leave this room, not right now.
Jay leapt to his feet and pushed Sebastian back down into the armchair, straddling him and dropping firmly into his lap to hold him there. It was ludicrous on its face—Sebastian could easily shove Jay off, if he really needed to—but he went still and quiet beneath Jay’s weight. His eyes slipped shut as a sigh rattled out of him; he bent to rest his forehead on Jay’s shoulder, hands braced around his hips. Jay brought one hand up to the back of Sebastian’s head, gently raking his fingers through his hair. It felt like the thing to do.
“You should stay here tonight,” Sebastian mumbled into Jay’s shoulder. “In case Reeve’s still watching.”
Jay nodded, his jaw stroking over Sebastian’s temple. “Stay with me.”
Sebastian groaned softly and pulled back, tipping his face up to look up at Jay. “We really shouldn’t have sex when I’m like this.”
“We don’t have to.” Jay kept scratching across Sebastian’s scalp, from the back of his skull down to the nape of his neck, careful and soothing. “Just stay.”
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