Page 8 of Drake
Ten minutes later, Rafe looks like he’s been struck with a wrecking ball. His face is pale, and I don’t think he’s realised that his hands are trembling. I can see he’s trying to think of the best response that isn’t ‘fuck off, this has nothing to do with anyone else.’ Because someone, I have no idea who—but I will be finding out—took a photograph of me and Rafe at Bent two nights ago.
Heads are going to fucking roll. I know one of the owners, Warwick Barclay; I’ve done protection work for him and his partner, Felix. He won’t be happy about the security breach. I also have friends in the service I can speak to; it can disappear very quickly, as can the culprit.
“May I look at the photographs,” I ask curtly, holding out my hand, thankful it isn’t trembling. I’m going to spin this around. Grant, now sitting at his desk, passes a copy to me. I study the picture; it’s definitely us. But how? I look at the blown-up image, locating where in the room it could have come from. The conclusion is obvious: it’s from the security camara. At least I know where to start my investigation. “This is a load of crap. Pure AI tampering. Not even a very good job. This is a set-up, someone with a grudge against Rafe. Let’s face it, plenty of people are pissed off with his continued success. Add that he totally turned his life around and won’t talk about his private life, and it’s easy to put this down to some disgruntled reporter. I’m his bodyguard; it’s my duty to protect him. If you don’t find out who is behind this, I will.”
Rafe looks up at me. For a moment his eyes brighten but go dark again when Grant stands up and starts to pace again.
“You’ve got to admit, Grant, they’ve tried every other way to hurt him. I think that fact that this is a room set up for sex, supposedly in a BDSM club, is taking things to extremes. But I suppose they’ve already tried drug and alcohol addiction, as well as a mental breakdown, so the ante had to be upped to something scandalous. Slap an injunction on whoever sent this and start a case for defamation of character. You should be standing with Rafe, not spluttering like some eighty-year-old spinster who’s never seen a dick in her long, boring life.”
I look at Rafe and see a little colour has returned to his cheeks, but I can tell he’s still shell-shocked. I give him a small nod, which is so not what I want to be doing. I want to pull him into my arms and tell him I’ll make it all right.
Grant finally finds his voice again. I’m thankful to hear the strains of doubt in his words this time. “Well, yes, Drake. Thank you for being so rational. I suppose I was just taken aback by the whole thing. I hadn’t given those possibilities any thought.”
Finally, Rafe speaks up, and I find I’m holding my breath.
“What’s the purpose off all of this? Is it supposed to be blackmail? How did it get to you? I agree with Drake that it’s not a real photograph. It can’t be. I’m hardly the spank someone till they come sort of guy, especially not another man. You know my career is more important to me; you told me to ditch the gay, so I have,” Rafe says, almost lazily. If I didn’t know him as well as I do, I’d believe him.
An uncomfortable looks flashes of the face of Grant’s lawyer. Why would he feel that way? Is he gay and objects to it being dismissed, or does he know more about this photograph, or the room it’s been taken from? I doubt I’ll ever get the answer from him. Grant is looking uneasy again, probably because Rafe has exposed his homophobic views.
“They’re asking for half a million pounds, or it will be published, Rafe.” He folds his hand on the desk.
“Don’t you think you should’ve started with that? For chrissake, Grant, is this a matter for the police?” Rafe asks, standing up. He looks at me. “Isn’t this where you come in, Drake? What are you going to do?”
“Leave it with me. Grant, just sit on that. Don’t do anything until I’ve spoken to some of my people. Rafe, let’s go. You should stay at home.” I look at Grant. “Call me if you have anything else sent to you. Me, not Rafe,” I reiterate.
As soon as we leave the office and go down to the basement garage, Rafe clings to my hand. “Who, I mean who the fuck did this?” He struggles to find the words.
“Wait until we’re in the car,” I growl, my anger now able to show. I bundle him into the front seat and walk around to the driver’s side. As soon as the engine is running, I hit the accelerator and race out, the wheels spinning as I get traction. Once we’re out on the road, I collect my thoughts. “This is an inside job. Someone in Bent did this. I need to talk to Warwick, one of the owners. I need to know who was in the security rooms that night and see a copy of all the recordings.”
“Was it definitely a photo from this week?” Rafe asks, fear and doubt creeping in to his voice. “Fuck, Drake. What are we going to do? This could be all over the gossip mags by tomorrow morning. Can you imagine what will happen? I’ll be fucking ruined. What the hell was I thinking?”
I know he’s just freaking out, but the idea that he’s now denying what we have, what we’ve done, and the thought that he’s regretting us and what we’ve become is not happening. I’m shooting that one down. “Calm down, babe. All of this is fixable. We can get to the source of this. I bet it will be cleared up by the end of the day.”
I pull up to the gate and punch in the code and wait the couple of seconds it takes to open. Rafe gets out as soon as we’ve stopped and goes through the front door. I follow, but instead of looking for him, I go to my office, closing the door firmly behind me. I’m tempted to lock it; I’ve got some tricky conversations ahead of me.
I sit at my desk and open my laptop, then with a heavy sigh, search through the contact list on my phone for Warwick’s number. I don’t expect him to answer and have a thought-out message planned to leave.
Instead, he answers. “Barclay.”
I swallow hard, ready for a very uncomfortable conversation. “Warwick, it’s Drake Foster.”
He pauses, and I imagine he’s trying to place my name; it doesn’t take him long. “Ah, Drake, it’s good to hear from you. How are things going?”
“Yeah, everything was going well. I have a problem and need your help. Have you got time to talk now?”
“I do. I’m having an early finish today. You sound serious, are you okay?” I remember he’s a full-time Daddy to his husband, Felix. It’s no surprise he’s showing concern.
“I’m in a Dom/sub relationship with a man very much in the public eye. He’s new to the scene—it’s only been a year. We had our first unsupervised scene this week at Bent. Today, we found out someone has taken a photograph from the security camera and sent it to my partner’s manager.”
I hear Warwick curse softly. “Tell me everything.”
I fill him in on everything, including me trying to persuade Grant it was an AI or Photoshopped-doctored image. I take a deep breath. “It’s Rafe Quartermaine, every teenager’s fantasy. You can see the damage this could do to him. Also, you can understand the implications this has for Bent. If members hear about a privacy breach, they’re going to leave in droves.”
He’s quiet for a while. It’s a lot to process, but his analytical mind will already have a plan in action. “Can you meet me there? I’ll need to go home and speak to Felix, and Lucien will need to know, of course.”
I’d forgotten the name of the other owner. Lucien is more hands on with the club, whereas Warwick is asilent [er1]partner. “I suppose I should’ve gone to Lucien first, but I don’t have a connection with him other than a couple of conversations at Bent.”
“No, you did the right thing. I’m guessing you don’t have his details. Can we meet there?” He pauses. “In an hour? Just you. I doubt you’ll want to bring your Dom.”
