Sexy Gay Stories - Volume Four - three m/m short stories

Driven To It
By Elizabeth Coldwell

    ‘But I need my car!’ I shouted at my lawyer. ‘How am I going to get to training if I don’t have my car? How am I going to do anything?’
    So much for hiring the man who was supposedly the best brief in the business. When I’d been clocked doing ninety-seven miles an hour on the M6, my third speeding offence in less than a year, I knew it would take me over the magic twelve points on my licence that meant disqualification. The first thing I did, after arguing myself blue in the face with the uniformed moron who pulled me over – and who was obviously a City fan, judging by the relish on his face as he issued me with the ticket – was get on the phone to Gary Graham. Better known as Mr Tricks, because he knew all the tricks that had enabled a string of celebrities to avoid driving bans on some minor technicality or other, I was sure he’d help me keep my licence. He didn’t. The judge – who probably hated me because I’d scored the goal that condemned his team to relegation, or simply because I earned more in a week than he did in a year – was in no mood to listen to my plea that having a car was absolutely necessary to enable me to do my job. I was United’s star striker. I was far too well known to be able to take public transport without being hassled. Didn’t he realise that? The smooth legal patter of Mr Tricks did nothing to change his mind, or aid me in my cause, and he disqualified me for six months.
    Graham strode through the crowd of photographers in front of the court buildings, shooting the cuffs of his Jermyn Street shirt. Now the sentence had been handed out, he was regarding me like I was something he’d trodden in on the way here. I was starting to think I should have hired one of those “no win, no fee” firms you see on the ad breaks during the afternoon racing instead.
    ‘You’ll be fine, Mr Kennedy,’ he assured me. ‘Hire a chauffeur. That’s what my other unsuccessful clients do.’ He fished in his top pocket and handed me a business card. ‘Contact these people. They’re reliable and discreet. No matter how many times they have to drive you away from some blonde lap dancer’s house before her husband gets home, they won’t sell the story to the News Of The Screws.’
    With that, he was gone, leaving me to push through the press pack, who circled me like ravenous sharks. So many flash bulbs were popping as I passed, whoever read the evening news tonight would have to give a warning that the footage of me leaving the court might trigger someone’s epilepsy. I turned up the collar of my suit jacket, issued a curt, ‘No comment,’ and went looking for a taxi.

    Sitting in the living room of my apartment, a cheeky glass of 12-year-old malt to hand, I studied the card Gary Graham had given me. Now I gave it some serious thought, maybe having a chauffeur wouldn’t be too bad. 
    I knew I’d get a load of stick when I arrived for training, but at least I’d be turning up in my own car. It wasn’t like I’d be dropped off by some bloke in the full peaked cap regalia, driving one of those Rolls-Royces people hire for weddings. Though a vintage Roller might look pretty stylish in the car park at the training ground, alongside the poxy old Ford Escorts belonging to the youth team lads, and the black, shiny fuck-off 4x4 with all the trimmings that Deano, the reserve keeper, thought made him look the tits.
    So I rang the number and spoke to a nice-sounding woman at Executive Driving Services, who arranged for me to hire the services of one of their chauffeurs. ‘We’ll send Callum to look after you, Mr Kennedy,’ she said. ‘He likes his football, so you should have plenty to talk about.’
    I didn’t want to talk. I just wanted someone to turn up and take me where I wanted to go. But I agreed on a price for Callum’s services and told her I’d see him at nine sharp the following morning.
    Dead on nine a.m. the entry-phone buzzed. ‘Come up,’ I barked into the phone, pressing the door release button.
    Whatever I’d been expecting, it wasn’t the man who knocked on the door to my apartment. Soberly dressed in a charcoal grey suit, Callum was maybe a couple of years younger than my own twenty-seven. His dirty-blond fringe fell into his brown eyes, his lips were set in a sensual pout and he had the broad-shouldered build of a swimmer, rather than the flabby physique of someone who spent all day behind a steering wheel. He