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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Misfits
Copyright © 2015 by Garrett Leigh
Cover art: G.D. Leigh, https://www.blackjazzpress.com
Editor: Carole-ann Galloway
Layout: L.C. Chase, http://lcchase.com/design.htm
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher, and where permitted by law. Reviewers may quote brief passages in a review. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Riptide Publishing at the mailing address above, at Riptidepublishing.com, or at [email protected].
ISBN: 978-1-62649-246-2
First edition
March, 2015
Also available in paperback:
ISBN: 978-1-62649-247-9
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Restaurant owner Tom Fearnes has loved his partner Cass for as long as he can remember, but their work often keeps them apart. When he meets a striking young man named Jake on the vibrant streets of Camden Town, their heady first encounter takes an unexpected turn.
Jake Thompson can hardly believe his luck when he wakes up in Tom’s bed. Tom is gorgeous, kind, and . . . taken. Tom’s explanation of his open relationship leaves Jake cold, but Tom is too tempting, and when hard times force Jake to accept Tom’s helping hand, he finds himself between two men who’ve lost their way.
Cass Pearson is a troubled soul. He loves Tom with all he has, but some days it feels like he hasn’t much to give. Jake seems like the perfect solution. Cass risks everything to push Jake and Tom together, but Jake resists, wary, until the darkness of Cass’s past comes to call. Then Jake finds himself the last man standing, and it’s time to dig deep and shine a light for the men he’s grown to love.
One does not refuse love. It was there, before we ever knew it . . .
About Misfits
Tom
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Jake
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Tom
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Cass
Epilogue
Author's Note
Dear Reader
Also by Garrett Leigh
About the Author
Enjoy this Book?
Tom Fearnes shook hands with the estate agent and watched absently as she disappeared into the bustling streets of Camden Town. Around him, busy Londoners jostled each other for space, and none of them took much notice of him blocking the pavement. He tuned them out and scrutinised the vacant building in front of him, frowning. The disused guitar shop wasn’t quite what he’d been hoping for, inside or out.
But, but, but . . .
Tom dismissed the boarded-up shop front, and glanced around at Camden’s popular markets and music venues. The familiar buzz of a new venture tickled his veins. He was in the right place, he could feel it, but the only vacant premises on the vibrant strip of Camden High Street were all wrong. Too small and overpriced, each one was a definitive no-go, which left his plans for a spring restaurant opening a distant dream.
Deep in thought, Tom tore himself away from the unsuitable shop and drifted towards the Tube station. He dodged a few slow-moving people, and swore under his breath like a grumpy native. Camden wasn’t his usual stomping ground, but he was an adopted Londoner through and through, and dawdling tourists got on his nerves, especially when—great—the sheer number of them closed Camden Town Tube station.
Tom glared at the metal shutters and caught the eye of a nearby Underground worker. “Is Chalk Farm open?”
The woman shook her head. “Closed for congestion. Try Mornington.”
Tom sighed. Mornington station was a ten-minute walk in the wrong direction from his Hampstead flat. He’d have to go all the way back to Euston now and get on a different line. Either that or hole up somewhere and wait for the crowds to clear.
He turned south towards Mornington and considered his options. He was bloody knackered and busy, and with the guitar shop a nonstarter, he needed to get home and begin the search for a new restaurant site all over again. Hmm. Thinking about his company’s latest culinary venture reminded him that he hadn’t eaten all day. His stomach growled, and he glanced around, looking for a place that wasn’t too rammed. A PGB pub caught his eye. It wasn’t the kind of place he usually frequented, but he could see a few empty tables through the window.
He braved a zebra crossing and pushed open the restaurant door. The inside of the pub smelled of cheap lager and burned meat fat. A surly hostess showed him to a table by the door, dropped a sticky menu in front of him, and left him to it. Tom watched her stomp away with a wry smile. Checking out the competition was always fun, especially on a Sunday evening. Tired and beat down from a long weekend, it was the sign of a sound kitchen team if a restaurant was still churning out great food.
Tom settled in his seat, shed his coat, and ran his gaze over the menu. To the untrained eye, it appeared impressive—vast and diverse—but Tom knew better. Any restaurant offering steak, pizza, curry, and a Moroccan tagine was seriously confused. And lazy. He knew the development manager for this particular brand and had heard most of their food was produced in a factory in Sheffield.
Boil in the bag bollocks . . .
“Can I get you a drink?”
Tom glanced up and blinked, for a moment imagining the words had been spoken in an entirely different context. Wow. There was no other word for the streak of masculine beauty waiting by his table with a notepad. Long fingers tapping on the paper, elegant hands and fragile wrists. Slender arms, slim shoulders, and a beautiful, pale neck. And his face, damn, his face. High cheekbones and flawless skin were set off by a tiny silver ring curving out of his perfect nose.
“Can . . . I get you a drink?”
“Uh . . .” Tom fumbled with the drinks menu. “Pint of Beck’s, thanks.”
The waiter disappeared. Given the attitude of the hostess, Tom didn’t expect him back anytime soon, so he was surprised when a frothy pint of lager materialised a few minutes later.
“Are you ready to order?”
<
br /> Not even close. Tom absorbed the young waiter’s melodic northern accent and scanned the menu again. “What do you recommend? Anything good?”
“Depends what you like.”
“Yeah?” Tom heard the waiter’s indifference loud and clear, but the youngster’s dark beauty cancelled out any offence he might have felt. “What about the pies?”
“We’re out of the beef and ale.”
“Is the chicken any good?”
Silence. The waiter wrinkled his nose. Tom glanced at his name tag. Jake. Labelling staff like meat was a concept that irritated Tom, but he liked the kid’s name; it suited him. “What’s the steak burger like?”
Jake shrugged. “It’s . . . okay.”
The pause said it all. “Just okay, eh? Where’s the meat from? Is it British?”
“It’s from Uruguay.”
“Nice. You’ve convinced me there’s nothing in this place worth eating. How do you know I’m not a mystery guest?”
The kid scowled with barely suppressed derision and shook his head. “We don’t have those anymore; they’re not cost-effective. We have anonymous online surveys instead. You scan the QR code on the menu with your smartphone.”
Tom swallowed a chuckle. He was familiar with the concept of online guest satisfaction surveys; he owned a stake in a company that hosted them. The QR code thing was new to the industry, though. Not many businesses had it yet. “I’ll have the fish and chips.”
Jake made a strange noise and waved his hand. “You don’t want to know where the fish is from?”
Is he taking the piss? “No, thanks. I’d rather live in ignorance.”
Jake snatched the menu back and disappeared. Tom forced himself to not watch and retrieved his phone from his coat pocket. He was engrossed in a commercial property website when Jake returned with his food a little while later.
“Do—do you want any sauces?”
Tom poked at the anaemic piece of battered fish on his plate, but noticing Jake’s mild stutter, he decided to cut him some slack. “I’m good, thanks.”
Jake sloped off without further comment. With a healthy amount of trepidation, Tom picked at his supper while he checked his diary and caught up on emails. As the director of his own thriving restaurant business, he had plenty to do.
Jake meandered past a few times. He didn’t check on Tom, but the third time, Tom sensed his waif-like presence, he flagged him down, held out the plate of greasy slop, and asked for the bill.
Jake seemed unsurprised by Tom’s lack of appetite. He brought the bill with a substantial discount and promptly disappeared again. The restaurant had filled up while Tom had been engrossed in his emails and soggy fish, and Jake seemed to be the only waiter on the floor.
Tom waited awhile for him to come back, but when it became apparent it wasn’t going to happen, he gathered his things and made his way to the bar. The unsmiling face of the hostess greeted him. She took the bill folder and put his credit card into the payment machine.
“Was everything all right with your meal today?”
“Nope,” Tom said, though he kept his tone light. “It was cold, greasy, and presented on a dirty plate.”
The hostess stared, but whatever retort she may have made was cut off by a deafening crash. Tom cringed. He knew the sound of smashing plates all too well. He looked over his shoulder and saw Jake surrounded by a sea of obliterated crockery.
Jake dropped down and punched the floor. He started to gather the shattered plates, but couldn’t seem to get a grip on them. A broken bowl slipped out of his hand. “Bollocks, shit, fuck!”
Tom took an instinctive step forwards, saw the strain in Jake’s shoulders, the angry twitch in his muscles, and felt a sudden, intense urge to help him that seemed beyond humble sympathy. But he stopped himself. There was nothing more humiliating than a stranger acknowledging whatever disaster had befallen you, and Lord knew, the flush creeping over the back of Jake’s neck told Tom he was embarrassed enough.
An irate-looking manager—who’d been conspicuously absent until now—appeared from nowhere and shoved Jake aside. “Leave it. Go out the back and pull yourself together.”
Jake’s arm shot out at an odd angle. “Wankers.”
The manager glared. “For God’s sake, go.”
Jake scrambled to his feet, darted to the kitchen door, and slammed it behind him. Tom relaxed a little. The scene was one he’d witnessed, and performed in, many times over. Who hadn’t dropped an armload of plates in the middle of a busy shift? But even as the diners around the mess went back to their food like nothing had happened, Tom got the distinct sensation that he was missing something. And he didn’t like the manager’s manner. There was nothing more unprofessional than letting a crowded restaurant see your frustration. It could be forgiven in a young waiter, but not a manager.
“Enter your PIN please.”
The hostess’s bored voice startled Tom. He’d been so engrossed in Jake’s calamity he’d forgotten she was there. He followed the prompts on the screen.
“Do you pool your tips here?”
“No. Your server keeps them.”
Tom handed her a folded banknote. “Good. Tell Jake I appreciated his candour.”
The girl’s face remained impassive. Tom sighed and passed the payment machine back. Where did places like this find these people? Even Jake’s scornful derision was better than nothing at all.
Tom made his way to the restaurant’s exit feeling slightly sick with the weight of the few oil-sodden chips he’d managed to eat. Tired too. A long, lonely weekend of property searching had left him craving a warm bed and missing Cass. Always, always, missing Cass. But his low mood lifted when he stepped outside into the mild September air. He loved London at any time of year, and autumn was his favourite season. Mellow and warm, even when the air turned cooler.
The unmistakable scent of city nightlife got to him too. Camden felt different when the sun went down, heady and exciting. Suddenly, the twenty unanswered emails clogging his inbox felt less important. He checked his watch: 7 p.m. The weekend crowds had eased, and he probably should’ve gone home, but his abortive dinner—and the pint of beer on an empty stomach—had left him restless. He didn’t feel like going home to an empty flat.
He wandered along Camden High Street. A pub caught his eye, one of those oh-so-cool bars with bare brickwork, graffiti, and a bazillion tea lights. The kind of place Tom knew he’d be too old for in a few years’ time. He drifted inside. London being London, no one glanced up. He bought a pint of overpriced lager and found a table in a dark corner. The mellow chillstep music was soothing, and for a while, he resisted the call of his laptop and people watched instead . . . analysing the clientele he’d be targeting if he ever found the right premises. Camden was an eclectic locale. Hipsters, punks, goths, yuppies, he could see them all in the bar. And he’d seen them out on the street too, dark and edgy . . . too cool for their own good. Camden felt like a place for the young . . . the up-and-coming who wanted to stamp their mark on the world a different way. To make it here, whatever restaurant Tom opened would need to be more than a mainstream brand.
But how? Young people desired luxury, but lacked the money to procure it. And Tom had noticed in recent years that his younger clientele were becoming less adventurous. They wanted safe, uncomplicated food . . . wanted it to look the same wherever they went, and that didn’t leave much scope for creativity. Simple, posh, and cheap. There had to be a way to have it all.
Tom tapped his fingers on the table, brainstorming concepts, lost in thought. He nearly didn’t notice the appearance of the slender, dark-haired man in the seat beside him sometime later. A twitching bundle of limbs he belatedly recognised as the waiter from the faceless restaurant down the road.
“Wankers.”
Tom blinked. “Excuse me?”
Jake winced, and it was a moment before he spoke again. “Hello.”
Tom smiled, unsure if he was about to get punched in the face. “Hello agai
n.”
“Hi.” Jake jerked, like a bolt of electricity had just run through him. “You . . .” he stopped, started again, and slid a leather-covered book across the table. “You left your diary.”
Tom reflexively reached for the diary that held his whole life. The diary that rarely left his sight. “How did you know where to find me?”
“I saw you come in here when I was on my break. Figured I’d take a look when I finished work and see if you were still here.”
Tom shoved the diary into his laptop bag. Jake muttered something. Tom straightened up. “Sorry, what?”
Jake shook his head. “Nothing. I’m just ticking.”
Ticking. Tom had heard the phrase before. A lightbulb clicked on in his brain. “Tourette’s?”
“Shit, fuck, bollocks. Yes. Shit.” Jake winked. “Fly him to the moon.”
Tourette’s. Bloody hell. That explained a lot—the stuttering, the sudden tremors in Jake’s limbs, and the badly timed swearing. “Is that why you called your boss a wanker?”
Jake shrugged. “Sometimes my tics are in context.”
Tom grinned, though inside, his mind was reeling. Tourette’s wasn’t a condition he knew much about, but he’d already seen firsthand how disruptive it could be. Even now, he saw Jake struggling to keep still. “Can I buy you a drink?”
“No, thanks. You left me a fifty-quid tip. I can buy my own.”
Jake got up as abruptly as he had sat down, and walked to the bar. Tom watched him go, admiring the liquid way his body moved when he wasn’t ticking, and speculating if he’d come back.
It seemed like an age before Jake reappeared with two pints of lager. He set one in front of Tom, then hovered, his left arm rippling. Tom gestured to the chair beside him. “Sit down, please. I could use the company.”
Jake sat down. He cradled his drink in one hand and glared at his twitching arm until it stilled. “Wankers. Sorry. It’s worse when I meet new people.”
“Don’t apologise,” Tom said. “It doesn’t bother me.” And it didn’t. The young man next to him was a far cry from the vibrating ball of frustration he’d been in the restaurant, and his tics seemed natural. As Jake relaxed, Tom could almost see them slowing down and fading in their intensity. “I’m Tom, by the way. In case you were wondering—”
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