Transfer Process

Chapter One

Dr Michael De Luca had been forcibly sent to Cambridge and he wasn’t pleased about it. The National Forum on Risk and Rehabilitation would be dry, rigidly structured, and he wasn’t even speaking. He’d given the keynote address the last two years, so he supposed that was understandable, but nothing was more annoying than officials demanding he cure violence while ignoring the systemic drivers behind it.

Unfortunately, Jonathan Reeves, as the Clinical Director at Ashgate Hospital, was one of the few people who had the power to make Michael do something he very much did not want to. He hadn’t framed it like that, of course: this was all a chance for him to get away for a few days at the NHS’s expense.

He’d been a little late getting to the conference room at Trinity Hall—National Rail being what it was—and so sat at the back, trying to work out how to attach his visitor’s pass without pulling at the wool of his loose-weave jacket. It was one of his favourites and he wasn’t about to risk doing it any damage for the sake of everyone knowing his name. He tucked it into a pocket instead, just as the speaker was introduced.

The speech was as predictable as it was offensive: reducing the burden on high-secure hospitals; compliance monitoring; improving public protection. A couple of people braved intelligent questions, but only one person asked a question that made Michael want to politely applaud.

“Has your Equality Impact Assessment identified differential recall or tagging rates by ethnicity? And, if so, what mitigations have been funded?”

He couldn’t see anything of the questioner except his short blond ponytail. He spoke with the clear confidence of someone who was used to receiving an answer: probably an academic or researcher.

“Thank you for the question, but I think we’ll pick that up after the session. Thank you to everyone for coming today and we invite you all to exit into Terrace Room, where you’ll find some refreshments.”

“Coward,” Michael muttered, under his breath, already getting up from his seat.

He got himself a cup of terrible coffee from the tablecloth-covered refreshments table before scanning the room, noting who he’d rather avoid, and spotted the same blond ponytail not far from him at the The Policy Press stand, leafing through the offerings. He drank the rest of his coffee in one unpleasant swallow and placed the coffee cup in a blue plastic tub, which he assumed was for dirty cups and plates.

The man turned when Michael came up beside him and Michael was surprised enough at his appearance that he briefly forgot what language he was supposed to be speaking.

“Do you imagine you’ll get an answer to your question?” he asked, after a short and hopefully unnoticeable pause.

The uncommonly attractive man gave a wry half-smile. “What do you think of my chances?”

“I think they usually take you outside and shoot you if you mention racism in a Cambridge lecture hall.”

The man let out a bark of laughter, causing a few people to glance their way. “Stefan Nowak,” he said, holding out his hand to shake.

“Michael De Luca.”

About Michael’s height, Stefan Nowak was supermodel beautiful: blond hair pulled back from high pale cheekbones, clean-shaven, full lips, and striking blue eyes. He wore a simple dress shirt and trousers, both off-the-rack, most likely a rack in Topman, but he managed to make it look good, somehow. Michael let go of his hand a beat too late, but the look Stefan gave him seemed like a mirror of what Michael was feeling, heat and interest, which he replaced quickly with a professional smile.

“Are you here to speak?” Stefan asked, his accent so non-specific it almost sounded studied. “Hopefully about something other than the inherent dangers of psychosis?”

Michael shook his head. “No, just a participant. And yourself?”

Stefan hummed, a glimmer of humour in the way his eyes creased as he dipped his excessively long eyelashes. He knew how pretty he was, at least: false modesty was not something Michael could stand. “Charity,” he shrugged. “They don’t usually let us speak.”

“Well, they’re certainly not going to let you speak now,” Michael half-joked, though it was likely true. The Department of Health was orthodoxy all the way down.

“You ask one simple yes-or-no question,” Stefan replied, irony in the slant of his smile.

Before Michael could reply, a statuesque Black woman, wearing a much better suit than Stefan’s, caught his attention from across the room. She was speaking to someone that Michael vaguely recognised. Perhaps an MPA policy lead?

“Ah, excuse me, I have to go help convince some people to give me some money.”

Not something I imagine you find difficult, Michael thought but didn’t say. “Perhaps you could join me for a drink later? I’m staying at the DoubleTree Hilton, by the river.”

“I was actually hoping you’d invite me up to your room.”

Michael was very rarely surprised by people, but Stefan was managing with every second sentence. “Room 408, I’ll be back by nine,” Michael said, hopefully before said surprise was read as hesitation.

“A very responsible bedtime,” Stefan commented, flashing a grin. “Til then.”

By the time he got back to his hotel room he was questioning his impulsiveness. As a rule he kept his private life as far away from work as possible, not wanting his sexuality to muddy the waters with his colleagues, let alone if his patients found out. Sleeping with a random convention-goer was not a good way to maintain that distance, no matter how pretty he’d been. However, when he opened the door at twenty past nine, his misgivings seemed insignificant.

Stefan gave a dazzling smile before stepping into Michael’s personal space. “Good evening,” he murmured, his gaze darting behind Michael to the king sized bed and then back again.

Michael could take a hint and caught Stefan’s full lips in a kiss. After a beat Stefan put his warm hands on Michael’s hips, and Michael deepened the kiss, reaching up to tangle his fingers in the gently curling hair at the base of Stefan’s head. Stefan made a tiny sound in his throat and Michael briefly tightened his grip. His instinct was to force three fingers into Stefan’s mouth and push them roughly against the back of his throat; to bite; to own. Instead he moved his hand down to Stefan’s hip, pulling away from the kiss to check in a little. If this was a regular hook up he would have had a conversation about limits already, but it was bad enough that he was fucking someone who worked at least nominally in his field without advertising his kinks. Stefan blinked at him, his mouth slightly open.

“We good?” Stefan asked, his voice slightly gravelly.

Fuck it, Michael decided. He’d just have to keep his more intense tendencies in check.

“We’re good,” he agreed. “Bed?”

Stefan nodded and Michael gave his hip a squeeze then headed to the king sized bed that dominated the room, unbuttoning his shirt as he went.

Both side lamps were on but he’d left the overheads off, though there was still plenty of light to see as he dropped his trousers, turning to admire Stefan’s wide shoulders and trim waist as he stripped unselfconsciously, draping his clothes over the back of the desk chair. He was half-hard, his dick as pretty as the rest of him, nestled in blond curls.

Coming over to the bed, Stefan went easily when Michael rolled him onto his back, arching up in a kiss. He was deeply responsive, making bitten off moans and biting his full lower lip. Unable to stop himself, Michael pushed two fingers into his mouth and his cock throbbed when Stefan sucked hard on them. A litany of filth ran through his mind: all the ways he could make Stefan beg and cry. He settled for pushing him to the point where only Michael’s tongue in his mouth kept him quiet enough not to be heard in the corridor. While he was still recovering, his gaze still soft and unfocused, Michael brought himself off with a few, rough strokes, coming harder than he usually did by his own hand—something about Stefan’s startling public confidence and easy compliance in bed hitting him just right.

He politely kept much of his come off Stefan, thinking already of the tip he’d have to leave the cleaning staff as he wiped his hand on the top sheet. Stefan propped himself up onto his elbows and gave Michael a very obvious once-over.

“So, come here often?” he asked, with an exaggerated leer.

“Does that line actually work for you?” Michael quipped with a laugh.

“Absolutely it does,” Stefan replied, rolling to his feet gracefully. He winked as he headed to the bathroom.

A burn scar, old but distinct, ran down from his left shoulder, widening to span his hips. Michael got his expression under control within a second in case Stefan turned back to him, but he went into the bathroom without looking around. At least it looked more like an accident than deliberate harm: the latter tended to have splash or defensive burns elsewhere, and Michael hadn’t noticed any.

He didn’t bother getting dressed as the tap ran in the bathroom, only sat up and pulled the top sheet over his lap. Stefan smiled at him when he emerged, heading over to the chair where he’d left his clothes.

“So, tomorrow then?” Stefan asked as he dressed.

“Same time, same place,” Michael confirmed, keeping his eyes very firmly on Stefan’s face, so as not to give in to the urge to search him for more signs of violence. Stefan wasn’t one of his patients, and had offered nothing about himself beyond his name. His scars were none of his business.

“Well, see you then,” Stefan said, coming over to give Michael a quick kiss before letting himself out the door.

Michael blinked. It was rare to meet a man so unselfconscious about affection or showing interest, even if it didn’t seem to be interest in anything more than sex. It was refreshing, and Michael found himself humming as he cleaned up and got ready for bed.