THE GENTLEMEN'S CLUB
Sebastian

Written by Lady Poetess
egiggles at moose-mail.com
/~bbp

Please do not reproduce on any website without permission. This
story has no resemblance to anyone dead or alive.

PROLOGUE

The isle of Uchilea was officially a province of China, formerly
one of the many Portuguese provinces now reverted to Chinese rule.
The Chinese government had all but officially disowned this isle,
however. Uchileans were pirates, smugglers, and thieves, to every
man and woman, and they had outwitted every devious and cruel
punishment the law imposed on them. Finally, the Chinese
authorities stopped trying to clean the isle of cutthroats, hoping
that the islanders would kill each other off in due time with
their own violent squabbles.

The Dragon Jade Inn was one of the more infamous places in
Uchilea. Only people who had a suicide wish or those who had
distinguished themselves worthy of respect from the Uchileans
dared step foot inside the deceptively small and simple eatery. It
was rare enough for one to find strangers in the inn. Rarer still
was to find three Caucasians seated in the area generally reserved
for the most powerful men in Uchilea. An American, a Brit, and a
man of indistinguishable origin - apparently it was equal
opportunity day at the Dragon Jade Inn.

Not so. The American was no stranger here - he had been here many
times, and had clashed and won the admiration of the local triad
that they let him free pass, as long as he kept out of their
lives. He was clothed in simple loose cotton shirt and jeans and
apparently without arms.

The Brit was clearly a bumbling dandy, too well clothed in
expensive-looking, if worn clothes, complete with black gloves.
His golden sun-burnished hair glinted in the sunlight, an oddity
among the dark-haired denizens of the inn. This Brit bore the
ravages of heavy travels - his once fair face was tanned and
freckled from exposure to harsh climates. But it was obvious that
he still hadn't mastered entirely the art of survival in this
hostile environment. No one but fools would leave his pistol open
like that, to be easily snatched by anyone who wanted to start a
crossfire.

Indeed, the Brit would be dead were not for his companion, the man
of indistinguishable origin now asleep on the couch beside the
table where the other two men sat. A rat-faced man whose once
slender frame was now bulkier with muscles, its agility honed the
hard way, and bearing too many scars of wear and tear, he had more
than proven his skill when he took out a few locals on his first
night here. There were always eyes on these two, waiting for any
sign of weakness to show, but so far this rat-faced man had shown
none.

Should this man fall, the Brit would be easy picking. Toby
Stephens, however, was gamely unaware of his danger as he tried to
persuade Sebastian Spence, the American, to perform a favor for
him.

"The last time I bring something back to America, Toby, I almost
got lynched at the customs," Sebastian Spence stated.

"How am I to know that the statue contained latent archebacterial
pathogens?" Toby protested. "But this one is harmless. Just one
primitive compass. What harm would it do?"

"Okay," Bastian agreed reluctantly. He was heading back to
America, anyway. "To Thomas, right?"

"Yeah." Toby grinned. "He'd appreciate this compass."

"Give me that blasted thing," Bastian said, and accepted the
package from Toby. "Word of advice, Toby - get out of here fast.
You won't last long without Lea over there."

"Oh, we're leaving tonight. There's a case of stigmata I'd like to
examine closer in Brazil, and Nic always wanted to see Brazil."
Toby looked at his sleeping companion fondly. "If Thomas asks,
tell him I'll be back for Christmas to visit him and his crazy
boyfriend."

Bastian shrugged. "Suit yourself."

"Where will you be going after USA?" Toby asked. He, like everyone
who was into travel, was in awe with the legendary Sebastian
Spence, who was called by the American National Geographic Society
the Livingstone of the twenty-first century.

"I don't know," Bastian admitted quietly. "I just don't feel like
seeing the world anymore. Seen everything." he shrugged once more.
"I want to see what it's like in New York."

"Your store," Toby offered.

Bastian ran a small store catering for worldwide explorer wannabes
as well as the casual tourist, packed with maps, books, and
traveling necessities as well too many memorabilia from Bastian's
travel. His reputation made the store a success not just as a
store but also as a reference point for many tourists wanting to
travel outside regularly scheduled conventional tourist spots. If
you wanted to explore the outskirts of Mongolia, you could drop by
to the World Traveler and find out all about it. Bastian's cousin
Greg Vaughan ran the store in Bastian's absence, and news were
that Greg's business sense single-handedly made the store a
success more than Bastian's reputation alone could have.

"I want to see Greg."

The statement came out of nowhere with such a strong note of
yearning that caught Toby by surprise. Bastian grinned sheepishly,
perhaps embarrassed for having blurted out this private emotion of
his to a mere acquaintance.

"I see," Toby said honestly. He did.

"The letters we keep exchanging. I can't help." Bastian seemed
really at lost for words. "I'm 31 now, and I get really tired of
moving around, and maybe it's time I go back and explore my own
hometown. I hear New York City is more dangerous than Vientiane
after sunset."

"And to Greg," Toby concluded for the other man.

Bastian hesitated, then grinned defiantly. "And to Greg," he
concurred. "I'm going home to him."



ONE

"There, this is the most comprehensive and accurate modern trail
of the Silk Road you can find," Greg Vaughan told the man who
asked as he unfurled the map in question on the table. "Complete
with annotations by our very own Sebastian Spence."

"Eh?" the man, who looked like an accountant - probably was one
looking for adventure in his upcoming vacation - asked.

"Sebastian Spence, worldwide traveler, geologist, cerographist,
and correspondent for almost every travel journals around." Greg
couldn't keep the pride out of his voice. He gestured at the
trophies, awards, and other prizes Sebastian had won in his life,
all proudly displayed at the wall behind him. "He has traveled the
Silk Road five times before, and they published his detailed
journal in the National Geographic Special in '89." Greg smoothly
placed the issue beside the map. "Between these two, you can avoid
the dangers that await, such as bandits."

"Bandits?" But the accountant was more enthralled than scared.
Probably being robbed and worse would be the man's idea of
adventure. "Cool."

Greg grinned, smelling an easy kill, and moved in.

Two hours later and two thousand dollars in the coffer box, Greg
whistled as he finally closed the store. It was nine in the
evening and he was looking forward to the rest of the night.
Tonight, every Tuesday in his life, he would sit down and see to
his correspondence with his cousin, the absent Sebastian Spence.
It surprised many when they realized that despite Bastian always
being off to some foreign corner of the world, he actually managed
to keep a pretty regular correspondence with Greg.

"We're closed," he said absently at the sound of someone knocking
at the door (Greg didn't install a buzzer, preferring instead an
old fashioned knocker to give the store an old world feel).

"Open up or I will fire you, cousin."

The firm bass caused Greg to drop the pile of magazines he was
holding. He heard the voice so rarely - the last was over the
phone when the same voice wished him a merry new year months ago -
but he had every nuance and timber emblazoned in memory.

"Bastian, what are you doing here?" Greg exclaimed, quickly
unlocking the door. "You never told me you're coming back - "

The rest of what he said was lost when Bastian walked up and
picked Greg up in his arms, lifting Greg off his feet. Greg was
six feet tall and his tennis, squash, and gym rat lifestyle had
compacted and honed his musculature so that he wasn't completely a
lightweight, but Bastian seemed to have no problem in lifting his
cousin bodily off the ground in his own rangy arms. Greg gave a
surprised laugh when Bastian swung him around, the latter calling
"How's my cousin getting on?" as he teased Greg, a laugh that died
when Bastian's mouth missed his lips only by seconds when Greg
turned the other way unwittingly.

And was that disappointment in the man's eyes? Couldn't be - it
was Greg's secret to keep, that he was in love with Sebastian
Spence. Oh, not this Bastian, but a fantasy Bastian that Greg
recreated from their letters: a dashing, laughing Sebastian Spence
that put Indiana Jones to shame in his bravado, dash, and charm.
However, it wasn't easy separating fantasy from reality, and Greg
was finding it very difficult to do so at this instance.

"Why do you come back so early?" Greg managed to ask through the
knot of nervousness in his throat as he tried to disentangle
himself from Bastian. Fuck, Bastian seemed determined to keep
holding him. "You told me you would be trekking the Siberian
tundra."

"I thought it would be nice to see how you are doing," Bastian
said, reluctantly letting Greg free to add the distance between
them. "Maybe I'll quit traveling and run this shop."

"I'm doing a good job running the store," Greg told him. "You
don't have to bother."

"But I want to. I'm tired. I think it's time I try living a life
more mundane, you know?"

"Okay. What is it?" Greg asked suspiciously, placing his hands
palms down on the showcase table between them. "You need money for
the trip? I am already prepared to send you some tonight, that is,
if you have stayed at Uchilea like you told me. Three thousand US
dollars could be a good start, right?"

"I want to stay here," Bastian said, wanting Greg to understand.
"I want to run this store, with you - "

At the same time, the door opened, and both eyes turned to the
newcomer.

"I'm surprised you're still open," a dashing, handsome man said.
"I take it our late dinner date is cancelled?"

"No," Greg said quickly. He cast Bastian a quick unhappy look.
"I'll be right there in a minute, Tony."



So much for homecoming, Bastian thought unhappily as he watched TV
in the darkened silence of his shop. His shop - not really. He
didn't even recognize this shop as his. Greg had changed it into
some sort of old world tavern reeking of adventurer cheese. It
could have been corny, but the entire shop d‚cor was surprisingly
tasteful and reeking of class. It wasn't even overly masculine
machismo in nature, although the sleek d‚cor was definitely
masculine. It wouldn't put off women wanting to travel, it just
told them that this store belonged to the legendary Sebastian
Spence, whose taste in d‚cor was only slightly kitschy and all
tasteful.

Bastian wasn't a tasteful guy. He had lost touch with civilization
for so long, he wouldn't know what to decorate a house, much less
a shop, tastefully. He was the kind of man who would punch that
bastard Tony black and blue even as he snarled and told that
bastard to never ever come near Greg again. But Greg would
probably hate that.

Every while he would look at the antique clock on the wall. Now it
was almost twelve. Were Greg and that Tony now getting ready to
fuck? He rubbed his face wearily as he bit back a foul curse he'd
learned from some Masai tribesmen. It hurt more than he expected
to see Greg just walked out like that, with only a "Lock up after
me" as a goodbye. He had thought, after all their letters and
emails, they were more to each other than this. At least, he had
thought - he had dreamed of so many foolish things.

He looked at the wooden giraffe at his side. It was a gift from
Greg, one that he had received when he was featured on the
National Geographic Journal for the first time. The dull glass
marble eyes seemed to mock him, and in the first time in years he
felt really lost in the world.

Greg found him sprawled asleep on the couch in the shop later. He
didn't know why he came back to the store, but he had this uneasy
suspicion that Bastian didn't really have anywhere to go. And he
was right, much to his dismay. The other man was asleep with what
seemed like all his earthly possessions around his feet or around
him on the couch. And Bastian, asleep, was none less attractive
than he was when he was awake. A thick beard was coating his
square, beautiful jaw, and his shirt was carelessly unbuttoned,
falling open to reveal hard-muscled chest lightly dusted with fine
dark hair. The man's finely chiseled face tempted Greg to reach
out and trace the fine lines on the man's suntanned face, but he
didn't dare.

A stray breeze from the opened door behind them sent a paper
fluttering towards Greg's feet. He picked it up, and started when
he recognized his handwriting - it was a letter Greg wrote to
Bastian back in '92 when they were starting out, Bastian in his
maiden voyage to Paraguay and Greg opening the door of the World
Traveler for the first time. Greg had wrote some mawkish nonsense
to Bastian about Bastian's having to keep strong after the death
of Mrs Spence to cancer. Greg didn't know Bastian kept the letter.
And from the heavy fold and wear on the paper, strung together by
cellophane tapes, Bastian had to have read and reread the letter.

There were more, scattered around Bastian. If it seemed an act of
carelessness to have these letters strewn around, it could be
explained by the way an ornate mahogany box fell open in the man's
sleep, strewing its contents around.

Touched, Greg had to bend down to pick those letters. He never
knew - he thought he was the only one who kept their
correspondences in a box for safekeeping.

"Remember when we chatted over that - what do you call it, mIRC? -
last year?" Sebastian's quiet voice cut the silence of the night
like a knife. "I always wanted to ask you if you have somehow kept
a copy of what we talked about."

"I have," Greg answered. "Bastian, I - "

"I'm sorry. I came back thinking that we mean something to each
other," Bastian cut in gently, moving to help Greg pick up the
letters. In doing so, their hands touched briefly, too briefly
before Greg quickly retreated his hands. "You and Tony."

"Me and Tony and his boyfriend Ryan." Greg laughed softly at
Bastian's face. "I went to dinner with the two of them. Ryan's an
artist, and he's helping me work on a coffee table book."

"Oh?" Bastian cocked a brow questioningly.

"At first I wanted to do a picture book using all the photos you
sent me, a book about you and your travels. But I realize you may
not want the world to see them, maybe they're personal. So I
decided to do something else. A comic-like book about you and your
exploits the way you told me. Lies and all." Greg smiled
mischievously.

"I never lie," Bastian said in mock outrage. "I never exaggerate
my travels."

"I know. And sometimes I envy you. You see the world." Greg sighed
and made to stand up.

"And I've come back for you," Bastian said.

"No, tell me you're not saying what I think you are saying," Greg
said instead.

"Three months ago, when I vanished without a word?"

"Yeah. I thought you were dead," Greg said. "I wrote so many
letters to your last address there. I was going mad because you
had no email and I had no idea where you really are."

"I was in the hospital. I had no idea how but I went down with
malaria, and they discovered too late that I had a violent allergy
to quinine. But forget that - what I want to say is that at that
time, reading your long, lengthy scolding letters, I realized that
you were the only person who cared whether I lived or died. I knew
then why I always keep your letters and printed emails and reread
them again and again - these give me strength because you care."
Sebastian took Greg's unresisting hands in his and let his lips
graze the man's knuckles. "You are there when I needed you. And I
am here hoping I can be the man you want me to be, Greg. I want to
make you happy the way you make me."

"I can't do this," Greg said quietly. But his hands stayed in
Sebastian's grip.

"Why? You know all my fears and insecurities, and I know yours.
That's a good basis for a relationship, right? We know each other
inside out?" Panic seized Sebastian as he tried to say the right
things to make Greg say yes. "You don't have anyone else right
now, right?" he asked, pleaded actually for Greg to deny that.

"I am in love with you. No wait, let me speak. I'm in love with
this fantasy I created from your letters. A dashing adventurer who
will sweep me off my feet. But that's fantasy, Bastian. And it's
best left that way."

"Because your father left your mother, and you think I will do the
same to you?" Bastian asked. How he knew Greg so well.

"You always do. And I never like goodbyes. You will want to leave
someday for something more exciting," Greg told him flatly. "Don't
ask me to even try, Bastian. I can't bear the pain."

"So let's just be friends?" Bastian asked mockingly.

"Yeah," Greg told him, not biting the bait.

"I don't accept this," Bastian said mulishly. "I won't give up."

"You fell in love with a fantasy, Bastian, just like me. I am not
who you think I am. Not some Florence Nightingale figure who will
soothe your pains like a mother, okay? Please let go of my hands."

"No," Bastian said stubbornly.

"Let go," Greg said again, hoping his knees wouldn't buckle and
his strength wouldn't give way. He was so tempted, so tempted to
say yes in the heat of Bastian's yearning looks at him, and the
devastating beauty of the man in dim light. His hands itched to
touch the man's bare chest, to kiss those dark, flat nipples, and
to rub his aching cock all over the man's naked skin of his thighs
and stomach.

Bastian growled, and his hands tightened their hold on Greg for a
second - and then he let go.

"You have anywhere to stay?" Greg asked quietly.

"No. I'll get a motel room somewhere," Bastian answered. "Look,
don't worry about me, Greg. Just get out and forget I ever said
those fucking things to you."

Greg doubted he could forget. Maybe when he was too old and his
memory went in the unimaginable future. But staying here would
serve no purpose. He hesitated, and scribbled down his address at
the memo pad at the wall before he could regret it. "Here's my
address and phone number. Call me if you need anything. I'll see
you here tomorrow? This morning, I mean?"

Bastian's nod was bare as he closed his eyes wearily as he lay
back on the couch. Greg hesitated at the door, torn between lust
as well as more indefinable emotions and fear of giving in to
Bastian.

"If you don't leave by the count of three, I will come get you,"
came Bastian's low voice from the couch.

"Bastian - "

"One."

"Wait a minute, we need to - "

"Two."

Greg made to open the door.

"Too late," Bastian growled.

Greg turned, and managed to sputter "Hey!" in indignation before
Bastian slammed his body against him. The force of impact caused
the door to slam shut behind Greg. And Greg knew in a wave of fear
as well as exhilaration that he was trapped.




TWO

"You have become more hairy than I thought, cousin," Bastian
murmured huskily as he savagely ripped Greg's loose shirt apart.
"I like that."

"Get off me," Greg hissed, sprawled on the floor with Bastian's
heavy weight pinning him to the floor. "Or I will - "

"You will. what?" Bastian mocked, his lips barely an inch away
from Greg's. "Bite me? Hurt me? Please fucking do, cousin." Greg's
lips parted in anticipation of the kiss, but Bastian cruelly moved
his lips so that they fell on the slender curve of Greg's neck
instead. "I love you, Greg," he whispered to Greg's ear between
his nuzzling, tender bites. "I love you so much you can't
imagine."

Greg couldn't answer. In this moment, he wanted so badly to
believe in Bastian. And Bastian was gentle, too gentle that every
gesture of his hurt Greg worse than a blow in the heart. Tender
yet scorching kisses seared Greg's vulnerable, exposed neck,
nipples, and shoulder blades. It was Greg who ached for
fulfillment, and he urgently pushed at the waistband of Bastian's
jeans. This was Bastian, his fantasy, his adventurer who came to
sweep him off his feet. and this was Bastian, his cousin whom he
shared his heart and soul to. It seemed Bastian was drowning as
much as he in this mess they created.

But tonight, at least, they could find surcease. Greg moaned
softly as he felt Sebastian's thick, pulsing cock glide across the
curves of his thigh and balls, leaving a trail of sheen liquid
precum. And when Bastian's cock gently but firmly parted the tight
folds of Greg's guarded anus, Greg lifted his thighs in welcome.
The pain and the intertwined pleasure of penetration caused him to
cry out and for Bastian to kiss him in what little comfort he
could offer.

Greg reached up and grasp Bastian's shoulders to hold the man
tight to him. "Fuck me, Bastian," he gasped. "Please."

"I will, cousin," Bastian answered.

"Will you stop calling me that, damn you?"

Bastian laughed breathlessly and then started fucking Greg with
full earnest. And he didn't stop even when Greg begged for mercy,
Greg's hands clawing and bruising the man's back in spasms of
pain/pleasure, and he didn't even stop even when he came in
scorching spewing of thick ropes of ejaculate - he didn't stop
until he couldn't take it anymore. This was Greg, his senses sang,
this was Greg whom he was fucking and marking as his with his
touch, semen, and taste. Greg was his. And his heart, fearful that
this was a dream and just as determined to keep this real,
threatened to burst with emotions he was barely prepared to feel.



"Just because you screwed me doesn't mean you are moving into my
place," Greg said indignantly the following evening. "Oh put that
there!"

Bastian paused where he was about to place the giraffe on the
center of the large table in the room. "This is a nice place for
the giraffe."

"The giraffe is better off there, at the corner of the display
shelf," Greg said, praying inside for patience.

"Yeah, good idea," Bastian said agreeably.

"You're not moving in here," Greg tried again.

"Hey, I'm going to be around," Bastian said, tried again too. "And
I'm sleeping in your bed tonight. Come on, you like it," he said
persuasively. "You want to try out the positions in this book I
found in a temple in Kashmir?"

"Oh?" Intrigued despite himself, Greg walked towards Bastian, who
was holding up an old leather-bound book in his arms.

"They actually have a secret homosexual cult back then, and they
have all these interesting positions and tricks," Bastian
murmured.

"Let me see that," Greg said, taking the book out of Bastian's
hands. "Oh fucking Christ," he exclaimed when he saw the first
page. "Is that possible?"

"Want to find out?" Bastian asked suggestively.

Thus Greg found himself on his bed a few moments later, being
banged out of his mind by Bastian's relentless pumping. He had his
own way of evening the odds, however. His fingers tightened around
the end knot of the silken cloth, and pulled until the first of
seven knots along the cloth pulled out of Bastian's anus. The wear
tearing sound was followed by Bastian's spasm of pleasure, and his
cock only noticeably hardened in the tight grip of Greg's sheath
as Greg pulled another knot free, the knot bruising Bastian's
prostate. And ruthlessly, Greg kept pulling. Bastian's hands on
Greg's shoulders tightened as his prostate got a violent bruising
times seven. At the seventh knot coming free, his prostate felt
like exploding and he lost it, coming in Greg violently until he
was sure he had lost his mind.

"So much for the seven knot trick," Greg remarked, tossing aside
the soiled silken scarf. "I read something about using your
knuckles in a rather interesting way."

Bastian moaned and wished he had never shown Greg the book. He was
fucking glad he did. When Greg's fingers penetrated him slowly,
lubricated with gel, to stretch him until his eyes tear in pain,
until each finger was truly embedded inside Bastian, Greg began
teasing Bastian with his knuckles around Bastian's widely
sensitized anal pucker muscles. Already raw with pain from the
painful almost-fisting, Greg's increasingly confident toying with
his swollen, raw anal pucker soon had Bastian moaning and pleading
and crying for more. Those knuckles stretched him until he writhed
in pain, and then Greg was slowly massaging his sore flesh, those
fingers soothing his anal walls until Bastian was lulled into
luxuriating in the caresses. Then the knuckle bruising torment
began again.

It was hell and it was pure heaven. When Greg mounted Bastian and
pushed his cock up Bastian's torn, sore anus, Bastian didn't want
this to end, ever. This was right, how could he ever consider
leaving this? He couldn't. He didn't want to. He was a goner,
hopelessly tied, staked, and marked as Greg's. A willing servant
and lover, until the bitter end. He was doomed, and fuck if he
didn't embrace his fate with any more relish.




THREE

Greg Vaughan came home three months later to an empty apartment.
There was a letter, there always was. "Dear Greg, I can't take
this. We are good together, why wouldn't you fucking believe that?
I can't take you doing everything you can to drive me away. I've
done all I can. You know where to find me. Come to me when you get
your act together. Hope I'll still be waiting. Yours, Bastian."

So the man was gone. Greg always thought so. He never let Bastian
close to him, except maybe in bed, and even then, he tried not to
give too much of himself to Bastian. And Bastian saw this as a
sign that Greg was deliberately driving him away?

He should be happy - he was vindicated. No more heartbreak. The
most dangerous man to his heart was gone. He could start moving on
with his life again. So fucking hell, where was his joy? Why was
he staring at the letter and feeling this pain in his chest, as if
he had lost everything in his life? Why did he feel that he was
the most stupid asshole in the world?

"Bastian!" he heard himself cry. Like a ghost watching from afar,
he found himself dashing out of the door. He didn't want to go
after Bastian - hell , he didn't even know where Bastian was - or
so his brain kept insisting. But his feet kept running, and his
heart wouldn't beat again until he found Bastian. Melodramatic,
but that was how he felt, and no amount of sensible thinking could
help him deny that.

He found Bastian sitting at the roof of their store, of all
places, sitting there with the familiar mahogany box of letters in
his waist. And genuine terror seized Greg when he realized that
Bastian could very well tip the letters over down to the drains
below.

"You're right," Bastian said, not turning to look at Greg. "I fell
in love with a fantasy."

"Bastian, I'm sorry," Greg said.

"So am I." Bastian finally turned, and his red-rimmed eyes, still
wet with tears, were unreadable. "The last three months were pure
hell. You were cold, you keep driving me away, fuck, man, you
wouldn't even trust a word I say. Well, you've succeeded. I've had
it. I'm getting out of here."

"I'm so sorry," Greg whispered. His voice carried in the wind. "I
am a stupid coward. Bastian, will you forgive me?"

"You want me to stay?" Bastian asked back.

"Yes," he said. "It took me awhile to realize this, but I want you
to stay. And if you want to leave, let me come with you."

Bastian smiled weakly. "I don't know. You really pissed me off."

"And I hurt you. I will try to make it up to you."

"You can't. But we can start anew," Bastian said.

Greg nodded. A drop of moisture fell onto his hand, and he
realized he was crying. Bastian stood up and carefully placed the
box on the ground before holding out his right hand to Greg. And
Greg, not caring to wipe his eyes, took it.

"I think I'm making this too easy for you," Bastian murmured as he
clasped Greg tightly in his arms. "But when you say you're sorry
and you want me to stay, I can't feel angry anymore. Don't hurt
me, Greg, please."

It hurt Greg to see such a man sunk so low. No man should have
such power over another. "I won't," he promised.

"Okay. By the way, I bought air tickets for the both of us to
visit Serengeti. I've been there too many times, but I think
you'll like it there. Dr Jones wanted me to help him out with some
ecological measurements - "

"Fucking hell, you knew I would come begging," Greg exclaimed,
pushing the other man back.

"I'm an optimist. And I can always cash the spare ticket back in,"
Bastian shot back. "Now you coming with me or not? Let your store
assistant take over for a while."

"Okay," Greg said. As if he would have any other answer to give
Sebastian.