Believe: A Skins Novel

by Garrett Leigh

  “And your ankle will be okay?”

  “Hopefully. I’ve got the best physiotherapist in the business for a brother, so I’ve every chance.”

  A smile burst slowly across Jevon’s lovely face, like rays of sunshine eating up the clouds. “I thought it would take months and months. That we’d be apart until summer, at least.”

  “Fuck that noise.” Rhys brought one of Jevon’s hands to his lips and kissed it. “I’d quit my job before I let that happen. I want to be with you, but more than that—I want—fuck . . . I want to use the skills I have to make a bigger impact. These days, there’s a waiting list of paramedics to get on the air ambulance team—dozens of people lined up to do my job, and I know it every time I put that damn suit on. Working on the camps feels more personal, you know?”

  Jevon nodded slowly. “I get it. I worried for a while that I was being selfish by pitching you the idea, but then I saw the light in your eyes every time we talked about it and knew you’d make it happen with or without me.”

  “I can’t be without you, Jevon. You know that, don’t you?”

  “As much as I know I can’t be without you.”

  Rhys’s own smile widened enough to hurt his face. “Then we’d better go tell Harry to order an extra turkey.”

  Epilogue

  Six months later . . .

  “I can’t believe you live in a minibus with blacked out windows. Thought you were supposed to be roughing it?”

  Rhys gave Harry the finger down the phone and continued on his guided tour of the Sicilian IDP camp he currently called home. “A tour company donated a bunch of broken-down vehicles that were bound for scrap—warmer than tents come winter—and I think we got the mafia’s cast-offs. I’m not complaining, though.”

  “Bet you’re not,” Angelo called out from somewhere behind Harry.

  He left the rest of the sentence unsaid, but he wasn’t wrong. The rusty gangster minibus had everything he and Jevon needed, including a facade of privacy they wouldn’t get anywhere else on the sprawling camp.

  “Anyway,” Harry said when Angelo was apparently done heckling. “I have to go—I’ve got a bunch of new clients arriving today and I’ve left Joe to set up. But call me in a few days, okay? And email me if there’s anything you need.”

  “I’ve got all I need, bro.”

  “Me too.”

  Harry treated Rhys to a smile that he usually saved for Joe and hung up, leaving Rhys with a goofy grin of his own. Because for all that the camp was proving to be hell on earth some days, Rhys couldn’t deny that he was happy. That he’d finally found his place.

  He tucked his phone into his pocket and left the bus behind. On his way to the makeshift field hospital, he passed Jevon’s big top and couldn’t resist peeking inside. Jevon was stood in the centre of a large circle. Dozens of children surrounded him, each one enchanted as he led them in a game Rhys had yet to get to grips with on the rare occasions he had time to play. God, I love him.

  With a herculean effort, Rhys moved on. At the hospital, he found a team assembling by the only roadworthy vehicle.

  Anton tossed him a lifejacket, and Rhys’s good mood waned. “Boat?”

  “Multiple,” Anton said grimly. “One of them’s already gone over.”

  He didn’t need to say anymore. Rhys climbed in the truck, rode it to the beach, and hauled ass to the charity-funded lifeboat that scoured the ocean for drowning refugees.

  Four hours later, he returned to camp with seven mildly hypothermic children. The adults had gone with Anton.

  Jevon was waiting in the special reception area he’d constructed in the hospital for any youngsters arriving on camp. There was food and warmth and toys. Gentle smiles and, more than anything, hope. For most of these children, their journey was far from over, but Rhys knew a couple of hours with Jevon and his troop was a respite they desperately needed.

  It was dark when they walked back to the bus, close enough that their hands brushed with every step. In the shadows by the water pump, Rhys pulled Jevon to him, wound his arms around his neck, and kissed him. “I love you.”

  Jevon smiled. “I love you too.”

  Jevon pressed his hand over Rhys’s mouth and flexed his hips again, thrusting inside Rhys with enough force to make him sink his teeth into Jevon’s palm, but not enough to send the bus rocking. Over and over he slid home, nudging Rhys’s sweet spot, revelling in the sensation of Rhys’s wet heat clamped tight around him. It was ecstasy, it was bliss, and he couldn’t fathom how he’d survived so many years without it.

  Without Rhys.

  He fused their lips together, muffling Rhys’s cries as he convulsed beneath him, then his own as his body poured all he had into Rhys—love, friendship, and so much more.

  When the storm had passed, Jevon lay on his back with Rhys’s head on his chest. Rhys dozed while Jevon played with his hair and thought of home. Two care packages had arrived from the UK that week—one from Efe in London, the other from Newquay, loaded with little gifts from just about everyone on Joe and Harry’s farm. A rush of contentment warmed Jevon’s bones. His own family had always had his back, but Rhys’s was so much bigger than he’d seemed to know until he’d left them behind. Rhys spoke to Harry all the time, sent Joe and Angelo good-natured abuse, and talked with Dylan for hours when they both found the time. Jevon loved them all.

  “What are you smiling about?” Rhys gazed sleepily up at Jevon, his too long, sex-tousled hair all over his face.

  Oops. Jevon smoothed it back. “I was thinking about home—well, the farm really. I kind of miss them.”

  “They miss you too. Dylan wants to fall asleep in your lap again.”

  Jevon recalled that drunken Christmas night and laughed. “I wouldn’t stop him. He’s adorable.”

  It was true. All slender limbs and blond hair, Dylan was gorgeous and sweet and lovely, and nothing like Jevon had imagined when he’d first spoken to him on the phone. “I dreamed about him fucking you the other night.”

  That got Rhys’s attention. The post-coital haze cleared from his gaze. “Why?”

  Jevon shrugged. “No idea, though it might’ve had something to do with, uh, Christmas and you describing your club encounters to me in great detail.”

  “Both of those things were your idea.”

  “I know.” Unbidden, borrowed images of Rhys riding Dylan’s cock while Angelo fucked his mouth flashed through Jevon’s mind. Heat rippled through him. “I’m not complaining.”

  “Right.” Rhys didn’t look convinced.

  Jevon poked him. “I mean it—I don’t think I would ever want to go further than what happened at Christmas when we were all kind of watching each other—but thinking about you with your friends is really fucking hot.”

  “Our friends,” Rhys corrected as he tried to steer his mind away from that drunken night, when the line between new friends and old playmates had blurred just a tiny bit. Jesus, Christmas was a mad one. “And you know I played with loads more people than those two, right? But I get what you’re saying. Dylan and Angelo are mesmerising, eh? There was a time when I thought I wanted to be just like them.”

  “You don’t now?”

  “Nah. I adore them, and their relationship is beautiful, but apart from the fact I wouldn’t wish Angelo’s life on anyone, I’m not the same as them. They’ve always played in clubs for healthy reasons—sex positive, you know? I wasn’t doing it like that . . . and the reasons I was doing it don’t exist anymore.”

  “Because you’re happy?”

  “Yes. The four of us? Yeah, I’d play for days if it was something you truly wanted to do, but I never think about it. I don’t need it.”

  When they’d first met, Jevon wouldn’t have believed it, but Rhys was different now—they both were. Jevon no longer worried that he didn’t match up to all that had come before him, and Rhys believed in himself enough to simply be loved, and to love in return. With clothes on their backs and a safe place to sleep, they didn’t need anythi
ng else.

  The End

  PATREON

  Not ready to let go of Rhys and Jevon? Or looking for sneak peeks at future books in the series? Alternative POVs, outtakes, and missing moments from all Garrett’s books can be found on her Patreon site. Misfits, Slide, Strays…the works. Because you know what? Garrett wasn’t ready to let her boys go either.

  Pledges start from as little as $2, and all content is available at the lowest tier.

  CROSSROADS - a SHORT excerpt

  Angelo and Dylan

  Crossroads

  Angelo rolled over in bed and, instead of cold, empty space, found warmth, love, and sunlight streaming through the open curtains.

  He opened his eyes. Dylan was already awake and gazing at him, his blond hair a tousled riot, his bloodshot eyes the only hint of the bottle of rum he’d helped Joe and Jevon sink last night. “Hey.”

  “Hey.” Angelo stretched carefully, testing his muscles, then sat up on his elbows. “What time is it?”

  “Six.”

  “Six?”

  “Yeah. Someone took the horsebox out about an hour ago. Woke me up.”

  “Lucky horsebox. It took me ages to get you into bed in the first place, you fucking hooligan.”

  “Sorry.” Dylan grinned without an ounce of contrition. “Blame Jevon. He said I was as buzzed as a kid at the end of term, and I kinda felt that way after a couple of those fruity things he was making.”

  Angelo laughed. “You had about ten.”

  “Five, actually.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Is it?”

  “Is it what?”

  “Whatever,” Dylan said. “I kind of got the feeling you wanted to talk last night, but we never got the chance. I didn’t realise there would be so many people here—Joe and Harry usually leave us to it.”

  “That’s because they go to bed at nine o’clock. Rhys can go all night, remember?”

  The double meaning made Dylan laugh too, reminding Angelo—as if he needed it—how lucky he was to have lost his heart to someone who understood him so well. Harry’s brother, Rhys, had been their playmate at Lovato’s—a place for every fantasy—for more than a year before shifting planes had drawn them apart.

  “He looked good, don’t you think?” Dylan said. “Rhys, I mean, considering he just got caught up in a terrorist attack.”

  Angelo shuddered. “I don’t want to think about that.”

  “Me either. Anyway,” Dylan went on. “What’s on your mind?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Uh-huh.” Dylan eased Angelo back down and stroked his hair out of his face. “Is that right?”

  No. But with Dylan’s morning wood digging into Angelo’s thigh, it was hard to form a coherent thought, let alone put words to the introspective carousel he’d been stuck on since he’d first realised returning to city life would put him back where he’d started a few months ago.

  Then Dylan kissed him and it was impossible to contemplate why any of it even mattered, because when Dylan’s lips were on his, there was nothing else. They’d tumbled into bed naked the night before, clothes flung carelessly aside, and fallen asleep before appreciating the alchemy of skin on skin, entwined limbs, and roaming hands. But that magic roared to life now. Dylan covered Angelo with his body, slipping seamlessly between Angelo’s legs as he fused his mouth to Angelo’s sensitive nipples, one after the other.

  Angelo’s limbs usually took a little persuasion to wake up, but Dylan’s touch was his kryptonite, and being without it for weeks at a time had amped up its potency. His legs quivered and his back arched from the bed. “Jesus!”

  Dylan chuckled filthily and moved further down Angelo’s body, kissing and nipping. Angelo’s cock rose to greet him like an old friend, and Angelo braced himself for the dizzying sensation of Dylan swallowing him whole.

  A knock at the chalet door shattered his dreams. Dylan cast a baleful glare over his shoulder. “Who’s that at this time?”

  “Joe.” Angelo covered his face with a groan. “You lost that bet about how many Maltesers you could fit in your mouth, remember? One of us has to muck out the donkeys.”

  If the grief for a lost blowjob hadn’t been so strong, the bewilderment marring Dylan’s lovely face would’ve been funny. “I don’t remember that.”

  “Lucky you.” Angelo eased Dylan off him and slid out of bed, searching for something to cover his junk. “You spat them in my face.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Pretty much.”

  Angelo snagged some sweatpants from the floor and pulled them on. He left Dylan in bed and padded to the door, opening it just as Joe was walking away. “Hey! I’m up.”

  Joe turned. In the crisp morning light, his olive skin and strong frame made Angelo feel like a pasty cripple. “So I see.”

  Angelo cocked an eyebrow, staring Joe down. In his hurry to get to the door, he’d forgotten his dick print was probably a fucking sculpture, but he knew Joe would break first. Away from the beautiful bubble he and Harry lived in, he was surprisingly shy about sex, considering how lairy he could be about everything else.

  “Er, anyway,” Joe went on when Angelo didn’t blink. “I was gonna let you off the donkey bet, but George just brought in a mare and foal that need some TLC. Harry and Emma are doing the stables, but if you’re up to sorting the donkeys, it would really help me out.”

  “I can do that.”

  “You sure? I can get George back if—”

  “Joe, stop, man. I’m good.”

  “’Kay.”

  Joe spun around and jogged away, disappearing up the lane that led to the working farm. Angelo watched him go, jealous, as ever, of the easy elegance that laced his every step, then closed the door with a sigh.

  Back in the bedroom, Dylan wasn’t impressed with the prospect of shovelling donkey shit before breakfast.

  “Stay in bed.” Angelo swapped his sweatpants for the ripped jeans he wore on the rare occasions he did any real work on the farm. “It won’t take long if Joe’s left everything where I can find it.”

  Dylan’s gaze narrowed, tinged with faint amusement that did little to conceal genuine irritation. “Since when were you a farmer’s best friend? Last I knew, you were still scared of horses.”

  “I’m not scared of them—just never went anywhere near them until Harry built the clinic here. He uses horses all the time for balance therapy. Bonny and Clyde, remember? You know all this.”

  “Uh-huh.” Dylan flopped back on the bed and closed his eyes.

  DREAM - a SHORT excerpt

  Angelo and Dylan

  Dream

  “Angel! Long time, no see.”

  Angelo Giordano slid onto a bar stool and nodded at Carl, an old friend of sorts, though they’d never seen each other outside of the club. “It hasn’t been that long.”

  “No? Seems like forever since I last saw your pretty face.”

  “Piss off and get me some water.”

  “You don’t want a Peroni?”

  “Nah. Fuck that.” Angelo had drunk his fill of crappy Italian beer at his father’s wake, and his empty stomach was still protesting. “Water’s fine, mate. Honest.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  Carl slunk away to the fridges on the other side of the bar. Angelo watched him go, admiring his perfect porn-star backside. Carl was good fun and they’d played together many times in the past, but as Angelo ran his gaze over his broad shoulders and thickset thighs, he felt nothing. He wasn’t here for familiar; he’d come for the unknown.

  A bottle of water appeared in front of him. Carl squeezed Angelo’s wrist and moved on, because that was the other good thing about him: he knew when to leave people alone.

  And Christ, Angelo wanted to be alone, but he had one last thing to do before he locked himself away for the rest of the week; a last itch to scratch before he gave himself over to the black cloud that had followed him all the way home from New York. Was still following him, two months later.


  He spun around on his stool and surveyed his surroundings. The bar was situated in the middle of the club, equidistant from most of the play areas. At this time of night, things were starting to heat up and spill over from the more popular rooms. Angelo’s first cursory glance picked up an acquainted couple screwing over a table, a snake pit of women on the floor, and a dude clearly getting the blowjob of his life from the bear of a man on his knees at his feet.

  Heat pooled in Angelo’s groin. He thought about joining the couple on the table, of claiming his space behind the man and fucking him while he banged his wife, or shoving his dick in the bear’s mouth and hitching a ride on what looked like some damn fine head. But he didn’t move because both options were dances he’d danced before, and he wasn’t in the mood for another waltz.

  Angelo drained his water bottle and slid from his stool. Instinct drew him to the stairs that led to the basement rooms⁠—his favoured place to play when his mood was this dark⁠—and he joined the short queue of others who fancied a mystery tour. At the front, he found Seamus, a beast of a man who watched over the basement rooms like every participant was his own child.

  He tipped Angelo a wink. “Looking fly, brother. Do I need to go through the checklist with you?”

  “Probably not, but I know you want to.”

  Seamus chuckled and went through his safety list before stamping Angelo’s hand, branding him as the only player who’d walk into whatever followed with his eyes wide open. “Bunker five,” he said. “I gotta feeling you’re going to like what you find.”

  Angelo rolled his eyes. Seamus was a terminal optimist, and his script never changed, regardless of what Angelo found on the other side of the thick steampunk door. “Whatever. Cheers, mate.”

  He left his shoes with Seamus and padded barefoot down the industrial-styled corridor, the metal floor cold against the soles of his feet. The play bunkers were soundproofed, what went on behind the heavy doors audible only to Seamus and the pay-by-the-hour observation galleries, but Angelo sensed the heat emanating from each room he passed and let it seep into him and merge with the building anticipation roiling in his gut.