by Harper Fox
Russell looked worried, like he thought it was some kind of test.
“Not that I’m fussy, mind,” I added to put him at his ease. Never a truer word, and all that.
“It’s—it’s all right, I suppose.” His eyes darted up to me briefly, and then returned to the safety of the coffee cup. “Their tea’s better,” he ventured.
I shrugged. “Like I said, I’m not fussy. As long as it’s hot and wet, it’ll do me.” I leaned forward, resting my elbows on the table, and made my tone low and suggestive. Habit, really, more than an urgent desire to get into Russell’s C&A slacks.
Russell blushed. Ye gods. Well, at least his innuendo detectors were working just fine. “Tom said…he said you needed somewhere to stay for a bit,” he said, looking up briefly from under his hair and then ducking back down for cover again.
“Yeah,” I said. “I know it’s a pain, but I need somewhere by the weekend. Tom reckoned you might be able to help me.” He still wasn’t looking at me, which wasn’t helping at all, so I made my voice as warm and seductive as possible and reached across the table to place a hand on one of his.
He jumped a bloody mile and this time he did spill the coffee. “Shit! Oh, God, sorry!”
“Hey, don’t sweat it,” I told him easily, seeing as about one drop had gone on my sleeve and the rest was soaking into his sweater. Shame it hadn’t gone in his lap, but I made the best of it. I must have used half the paper napkins in the place to mop him up, even the bits that didn’t strictly need it. He appreciated it. Believe me, I could tell. “Come on, we’d better get you home and into some dry clothes,” I said, taking his arm.
Russell lived in a development near the docks. Not the posh end, by Ocean Village where Sebastian lived so he could go and wank over his yacht any time he wanted, but it wasn’t totally downmarket. His flat was on the second floor, up four flights of stairs. It was all right, I suppose. Nothing like Sebastian’s, of course, but I’d known I wouldn’t get that lucky again. There was a tiny hall that led into a smallish lounge/diner, with other doors off that must be to bed and other rooms. “Great place you’ve got here,” I said, slinging my rucksack on the floor.
Russell looked pleased. “You like it? I know it’s a bit bare—I haven’t had time to do it up much yet.”
“No, it’s great,” I told him, walking past the squashy, lived-in sofa to the window. “That view is amazing,” I added, with a lot more sincerity this time. The flat looked out over Southampton Water, and you could see the lights of ships passing by underneath in the twilight. Farther up to one side was a bridge over the river with tiny little cars driving over it, visible only by their headlamps. Somehow it made me feel like we were right in the heart of things, but in our own little world; part of the city, but above it too.
“It’s great, isn’t it?” Russell said, coming up behind me. “It’s why I bought the place. Just fell in love with that view. You look at that and you feel you can go anywhere, do anything.” It was more words than he’d strung together the whole time in the café.
“Yeah? You always lived here alone?”
Russell nodded once, clamming up again. “I’ll just get changed.”
He disappeared into what must be his bedroom, and I looked around a bit, checking out the bookshelves and the DVD collection like you always do, although hopefully I’d have plenty of time to do that later. There were the engineering books like you’d expect, and the complete works of Terry Pratchett snuggled up to Gormenghast and The Lord of the Rings, but there was also a whole shelf full of books in French, mostly crime stories, which made sense. You don’t need half as big a vocabulary to read thrillers in a foreign language as you do for science fiction. There were a couple of Arsène Lupin paperbacks that looked familiar from my teenage years, and a solitary Maigret. It made me nostalgic for childhood holidays in Brittany. Back when my dad had still been speaking to me.
“Do you speak French?”
Russell’s voice had startled me, and I spun ’round. He’d changed into jeans and a baggy red T-shirt that made him look like his own kid brother. “Haven’t done in years,” I said, shrugging.
He gave a shy smile. “You’d probably pick it up again all right if you tried. Um. Have you eaten?”
“Not yet, no,” I told him with a smile, sitting on the well-stuffed sofa and putting my arm along the back. I casually rested my right ankle on my left knee, giving him a good look at my package. Laying my cards out on the table, so to speak. “What do you fancy?”
I watched him perch awkwardly on the edge of an armchair and tried not to sigh. He was like a tortoise, I decided. Retreating into his shell every time I tried to get close.
Was he even actually gay?
Still, as long as he let me stay here until the end of Finals, what did I care? I sat forward again. “If you’ve got some food in, I’m not bad at cooking. Or we could get a takeaway? If you’ve got the money, that is,” I added, as it was probably time we got the business details out of the way. “Tom told you I’m skint, right? So I can’t afford any rent, but I’m happy to pay my way in other ways. You know—you scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours. Or, you know, any other bits you want scratching…” I left it hanging, but I didn’t lick my lips. I’ve got some class. And he’d probably have run off screaming.
I could see Russell’s Adam’s apple bob up and down as he swallowed. “Tom said…he said you didn’t have any money.” He frowned. “But you don’t need to…you know.” He stopped, looking like he’d rather be at the salon getting a back, sack and crack.
Shit. He wasn’t gay. I was going to kill Tom.
Driftwood
Harper Fox
What the tide washes in, the past can sweep away.
All Dr. Tom Penrose wants is his old life back. He’s home in Cornwall after a hellish tour of duty in Afghanistan, but while the village is the same, he isn’t. His grip on his control is fragile, and it slips dangerously when Flynn Summers explodes into his life. The vision in tight neoprene nearly wipes them both out in a surfing mishap—and shatters Tom’s lonely peace.
Flynn is a crash-and-burn in progress, one of only two survivors of a devastating rescue helicopter crash that killed his crew. His carefree charm is merely a cover for the messed-up soul within. The sparks between him and Tom are the first light he’s seen in a long, dark tunnel of self-recrimination, which includes living in sexual thrall to fellow crash survivor and former co-pilot, Robert.
As their attraction burns through spring and into summer, Tom must confront not only his own shadows, but Flynn’s—before the past rises up to swallow his lover whole.
Warning: Contains explicit m/m sex, hot helicopter pilots and skin-tight wetsuits. Also, in true British tradition, a tiny bit of joystick innuendo.
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This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Samhain Publishing, Ltd.
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Driftwood
Copyright © 2010 by Harper Fox
ISBN: 978-1-60928-157-1
Edited by Sasha Knight
Cover by Natalie Winters
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First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication: August 2010
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