New story time!

The boys in this are very different from FOF Carlisle and Edward, but I hope that you will love them as much as I do. Some chapters are pre-written. so updates will be once a week, for now. I will let you know if that is going to change.

Thank you to my pre-reader KarenEC who kicks my terrible tense use into shape. She also made my beautiful banner, which I have linked on my profile.

Disclaimer: I dont own Twilight. Sadly.

To: Carlisle Cullen

From: Platinum Cars

Pickup at LHR 19:10, Saturday 19th September. Meet at arrivals. Name "Whitlock." Drop off at The Waldorf.


People say that the eyes are the window to the soul. Maybe they are. I guess I should know; I see enough of them. I meet a bunch of assholes in my job, I'm not sure I see many souls, though. Maybe rear view mirrors lessen the impact. Like that monster in Harry Potter.

I glance at 'Whitlock' in the mirror before my eyes return to the road. He was nice enough; he thanked me for taking his bags for him, which is more than I get from most people. I scratch my head with my hat. It's a warm evening and the air con doesn't touch my head under this hat. I can't take it off though, because that is 'unprofessional.'

I hate early evening pickups at this time of year. The sun is setting and it's a pain in the arse to drive. At least on the way to the hotel the sun is behind us. My rear view voyeurism is limited then, though, as the glare from the sun is intense. Most of the journey is into London, but we hit central London as we get close to the hotel. The city is weird mix at this time of shoppers going home, people out to go to the theatre, and people dressed up ready to pre-drink in pubs before nights out.

I have the radio on low. We're meant to ask clients if they would like the radio on or not, but I always have it on. I need some background noise while I work, and people on the radio are friendly. I don't hear that many friendly voices throughout the day. Most people using our service aren't afraid to tell me to turn it off if that's what they want, but Whitlock is quiet, engrossed in something on his phone.

We pull up outside the Waldorf about fifty minutes after we leave the airport, not a bad run. I get Whitlock's bags out of the boot of the car and hand them off to the hotel porter. When I open the door for Whitlock he nods a thank you at me, handing me some cash as a tip, before heading up to the door of the hotel, his eyes still glued to the screen of his phone.


To: Carlisle Cullen

From: Platinum Cars

Pickup at LGW 21:00, Thursday 24th September. Meet at arrivals. Name "Masen." Drop off at Claridge's Hotel.


I get the confirmation email from the company, and about five minutes later, I get another from Tanya, the owner of the company.

To: Carlisle Cullen

From: Tanya Denali



Edward Masen is a massive client for us.

Do everything he asks. Don't fuck it up.



I get on well with Tanya. She doesn't peddle bullshit, and you always know where you stand with her. She likes me, too; that's why I have been given this guy I guess. I'm a good driver; I don't care enough about the clients to want to try and pry into their business, but I can pretend I care enough to give a good service.

The cars we use are top of the range, but are cars nonetheless; limos are rarely used. I keep a cooler on hand so I can always offer people a cold drink, or something to eat; I make sure there are ports everywhere for people to plug in any electrical equipment; I heft their bags all over the place. I even had Rosalie, my best friend's sister, set the car up so the climate can now be controlled from the back. It was the worst idea of my life during summer when people refused to turn the air con on. 23 degrees Celsius is hot here, and I need air con. Turns out, a surprising number of people don't.

Our clients are usually out quickly, but Masen is taking his time, affording me the time to people watch. I quite like waiting at arrivals for people. Although most people I am there to meet are engrossed in themselves, watching other people meet their families and friends always brings a smile to my face. It is a point of utter joy, especially when you have waited with them, watching people get more and more excited, hearing the buzz of happy chatter around you building, until finally all that pent up energy is released, usually in a crushing hug.

The flight I am waiting for is from Las Vegas, and I pass the time trying to guess how much money people won and lost while they were there. I am at the front of the crowd of people, holding my "Masen" sign, and standing by a couple of girls, maybe in their early twenties, who won't stop talking. They are waiting for their friends to come home. Their friends had got married while out there, and the girls are torn between being pleased for them and being annoyed that they weren't in on the plan.

I'm looking forward to seeing their reunion, just to see which emotion they finally decide on, when they gasp.

"Fuck, that guy is gorgeous."

There is a bit of a crowd coming out, and I can't see who they are talking about yet. I crane my head a little to the side, trying not to be too obvious, but I want to see this with my own eyes.

The crowd of people moves off towards the opposite exit and I see what the girls mean. This man is hot. I let my eyes drift over him as he moves towards me, and I realise that he has either seen me check him out, and is about to punch me, or this is Masen. I'm not sure which is worse.

He nods at me, and manoeuvres round to the exit and I walk to meet him. He's on his phone, and I hold out my hand to take his trolley, which is dangerously swerving as he tries to steer one handed. Remembering Tanya's instructions, I point towards Costa, wondering if he wants a hot drink for the journey; it is a chilly night tonight. He frowns, and lifts his arm to show me his watch, shaking his head, before dropping his hand to stab his finger towards the entrance.

I manage to resist rolling my eyes at him, and set off at a brisk pace towards the exit. I wasn't the one who was essentially the last off the plane.

I get his bags into the car and let him get settled while I run the trolley back. As I climb back in, he is yelling at someone.

"How am I meant to sort anything without McCarty? It took me an hour longer than usual to get through the airport."

His flight only landed forty-five minutes ago, so I'm not sure quite how that happened. Drama queen. I pull out of the airport as he continues to rant at whoever is on the other end of the phone.

"He needs to be here; how the fuck did you manage to book him onto the wrong flight? More to the point, why have I ended up on the fucking Gatwick flight anyway? I'm miles away from where I need to be, while Emmett is probably stuffing himself with the hotel's food and bordering on getting us thrown out of the hotel for flirting with the staff. Before I even get there. Not good enough. You've done a shit job and you need to start packing your desk up. I want you gone when I get back."

He puts the phone down and runs his hand through his hair.

"It's fucking freezing in here."

It's not. I point out the climate control to him and he sets it to what I can only imagine to be the temperature on the surface of the sun.

He picks up his phone and starts talking to someone I can only imagine to be the Emmett character. I've never listened in to anyone's conversations before; I don't think I have ever cared. But this guy, this insanely hot and incredibly rude guy, just makes me want to know everything about him.

As Masen rants at his phone about staff being shit, and always being fucked over – a point I doubt, judging by the lifestyle he can clearly afford – I try to sort out my emotions.

I know I'm gay, and I am more than ok with that. I go out every now and then, and find someone to bring back to my flat, but it's never more than one night, no matter how attractive he is. I never, ever, obsess over anyone, and I can't figure out why I seem to give so much of a shit about Masen.

Driving at night, the headlights of other cars, along with the streetlights, becomes somehow hypnotic. But not on this drive. My senses are on hyper alert. Masen is off the phone now, but typing away furiously. I ignore the true purpose of the rear view mirror and glance at him. The glow from the screen lights up his face, albeit making him look slightly blue, and I watch him as much as I am able. He has a dusting of stubble on his face, and his hair is all over the place. He has pulled at his tie a little, his top button is undone, and his jacket has gone, in deference to the ridiculous temperatures he wants to keep the car at. He looked amazing in a full suit, and he looks even better slightly dishevelled. I can't see his eyes, which are focussed on whatever he is doing, but I know from the airport that they are a beautiful shade of green.

I shake my head and force myself to focus solely on the road; the heat is obviously getting to me. Normally all I concentrate on is how a guy feels while he is pressed up against me, how his kisses feel against my skin. Shaved or stubble only matters when I can feel it scraping against my skin. A person's clothes don't interest me, unless I am figuring out how to get them off. I don't care about a person's eyes, unless they are watching mine as we drive each other closer to release.


I look at Masen in the mirror, and he continues before I can speak. "I need a drink. My mouth is dry. I guess it would be too much to ask for you to provide them."

I take a deep breath, Tanya's words flying round my brain as I will myself not to snap at him.

"If you lift the seat next to you, there's a cooler in there."

"Well fuck, it's a good job I chose this seat. It's hardly helpful if I'm sitting on the thing I need."

I just look at the road, trying not to let the chants of "prick" that are running round my brain, out.

I don't bother to tell him there are coolers under his seat and the passenger seat too. If all those seats are taken, well... there are enough people for someone to manage to bring their own drinks in that case.

Even at this time of night, we hit traffic. This is London after all. I spend another hour listening to Masen bitch at every single person he speaks to, watching him surreptitiously in the rear view mirror, and wondering why hearing him be such an insufferable dickhead does nothing to soften my erection.

Eventually we get to Claridge's hotel. They have their own car service for people who land at Heathrow, and aren't so used to having to deal with outside drivers. Masen is still on the phone, and storms into the hotel without a second glance at me as I am passing his bags off to the porter.

The fucker didn't even tip me.


To: Carlisle Cullen

From: Platinum Cars

Pickup at Claridge's Hotel 20:00, Monday 28th September. Meet in the hotel lobby. Name "Masen." Drop off at LGW.


To: Carlisle Cullen

From: Tanya Denali

Clearly you did something right. Keep it up.



He sits on the opposite side of the back seat this time, with a smug grin. I'm pissed off, because I can't see him so well in the mirror.

"Drink?" He smirks, thinking he's got me beaten.

"If you lift up the seat next to you, there's a cooler in there." We're stopped at traffic lights, and so I turn round, giving him my sweetest smile. Possibly mixed with a hint of a victory smile.

He recovers well from my comment, merely nodding and grabbing himself a bottle of water. The radio is off today, so I can listen to whatever he is saying, and he doesn't disappoint. Whatever business he was here to complete seemed to go well; there is less bitching involved in his conversations.

About fifty minutes into the journey, he tosses his phone onto the seat next to him and lets out a huge sigh, resting his head back against the seat. "Can you put the radio on, please?"

If I wasn't seatbelted in, I might have fallen off my seat in surprise at hearing the word 'please' escape his lips.

I flick the radio on, and Classic FM comes on. I had listened to it on the journey to the hotel, hoping to relax before the journey with him. I move to change the station, trying to find something that played a better mix of music.

"Leave it."

No 'please'. His manners are clearly short lived.

He spends the rest of the journey with his eyes shut. I'm not quite sure if he is asleep, but I take the opportunity to move the rear view mirror so I can see him a little clearer. He is beautiful, his face is relaxed, it's the first time I have seen him like this, and I wish I could take a picture.

Considering the density of traffic, it feels like we reach Gatwick in record time. He opens his eyes as I pull to a stop, and is out of the car by the time I have got him a trolley for his bags. I wish him a pleasant flight and he thanks me, striding off to departures. I lean against the car and enjoy the view.

And then realise he has left me no tip, again. Prick.