by JL Merrow
Rufus escaped upstairs. He hadn’t much liked the undercurrents down there. While he was of course absolutely certain Shelley wouldn’t ever cheat on his dad, did she have to be so obvious about ogling another bloke?
Especially when he was Rufus’s bloke. Well, sort of.
He rummaged through Dad’s drawers and selected his items with care. Then he took them to Michael’s room.
Michael was sprawled on top of the duvet, starkers. “Took you long enough, didn’t it?”
“I brought you some clothes,” Rufus said, trying not to stare. Except they’d already had sex, so why shouldn’t he stare? He gazed defiantly at the muscular form laid out before him. Michael’s skin, he decided, was as winter pale as Rufus’s was—he just looked browner because of the thick, dark hair on his chest, arms, legs, and . . . other places. Oh god. Michael’s dick was stiffening as Rufus looked at it.
Michael smirked. “Forget the clothes. Why don’t you come here and warm me up yourself?”
“I can’t! They’re still downstairs. They might hear something.”
“So?”
“So they’ll think I’m a total slut! They think we’ve only just met, remember?”
Michael’s smirk deepened. “Yeah, but when we screwed around before, we had only just met. Remember? Cos I fucking well do.” He stroked his dick suggestively. “Bit late to come over all virginal on me now, sunshine.”
“They don’t know that,” Rufus whispered furiously. “So put the clothes on, all right?”
Throwing them at him was possibly a bit excessive, but Rufus wanted them both to be absolutely certain he’d made his point. Facing his dad and stepmum after having his first experience of full-on sex with a stranger had been bad enough. He could not deal with them overhearing him having his second.
No matter how tempted he was to just jump into bed with Michael and let him have his wicked, wicked way with him again.
“Christ, you’re no fun,” Michael complained, sitting up and picking through the pile of garments that had landed on his chest. “Hang on a mo, what the fuck is this shit?”
“Dad’s clothes,” Rufus said, folding his arms. “The only ones that’ll fit. So it’s that or nothing, and if it’s nothing, you’ll go hungry, cos I’m not serving you dinner if you come down naked and give my dad a heart attack. Speaking of which, I need to get back in the kitchen.”
“Why? You washing my kit by hand?”
Rufus didn’t answer, too busy legging it downstairs before temptation got the better of him. This was all getting too much. What he needed was some quiet time alone in the kitchen prepping for tonight’s dinner. That’d calm him down.
“That was quick,” Dad said when he got back in the kitchen. They were still here? How long did it take to drink a cup of tea?
“So what did he say?” Shelley asked.
Rufus stared at her. “What?”
She tutted affectionately. “About why he’s here on his own.”
“Um, I forgot to ask,” Rufus said. “I’ll go and do it now.”
He ran back upstairs, went into his room, and closed the door.
Then he hid under the duvet.
Michael gave his dick another couple of halfhearted strokes, but with Rufus no longer there, it’d lost interest. Shit. When he’d pictured what staying in Rufus’s B&B would be like, he’d imagined a total shag-fest. He’d forgotten it belonged to his parents and they might actually be there a lot of the time.
Not that they’d have a leg to stand on, morals-wise, if they got uptight about him shagging their son under their roof. Again. Christ, how had the old goat pulled a girl young enough to be his daughter? She had to be thirty-five, forty tops, while he looked like he had both feet in the grave and a bloke standing by with a shovel. She had to be a gold digger. It was the only explanation, although fuck knew how much gold there was in a B&B on the Isle of bloody Wight.
He put on the old-man shirt Rufus had left him, then the old-man trousers which were too loose in the waist and too short in the leg. Rufus had brought him a pair of saggy white boxer shorts as well, but no way was he fucking touching those. Nylon socks—and Jesus Christ, a cardigan? Michael had to laugh. Sod it. If he was gonna look like a dork, he might as well go all the way. He pulled on the cardigan, and buttoned it up for good measure. Like the shirt, it was tight at the shoulders but sagged out at the stomach, giving him a phantom potbelly. Jesus wept. Michael jammed his hands in his pockets, let his shoulders slump, and looked in the full-length mirror in the wardrobe door.
Christ. If he went home like this, his mum’d have a heart attack, convinced his dad had faked his own death twenty-six years ago and had been living with some strumpet all this time.
Kind of weird, thinking what his dad might have been like if he’d lived. Michael had seen pictures, course he had, like the black-and-white one on the gravestone that’d creeped him out every Sunday when he was a kid and they went to visit it after Mass. It’d come from Mum and Dad’s wedding photos, and to Michael his dad was always that dark figure in a black suit, looking a lot like the devil in one of his sisters’ TV programmes. The pictures he’d seen of his dad playing with his sisters when they were little just hadn’t seemed like the same man. More like some friendly uncle he’d never got to meet.
Michael shivered and turned away. Time to go see if Rufus’s stepmum still fancied the pants off him when they belonged to her old man.
When he got downstairs, though, the kitchen was empty, the only sign of life his skivvies going round and round in the washer. A flash of crimson showed his sweater was in there as well, and Michael winced. His mum always washed it by hand.
What to do now? Michael wasn’t gonna go outside dressed like some old grandad, that was for sure. He had a bit of a poke around. The cupboard under the stairs turned out to be a kiddies’ games room, complete with an ancient portable telly and boxes of Lego. The door marked Residents’ Lounge led to a big room with a bay window, which had to be directly under his bedroom. It had flowery curtains, comfy-looking mismatched armchairs, and a faint smell of furniture polish. No people, though, which Michael supposed he should have expected. There must be another living room somewhere, where the family went to get away from the guests.
Well, this was crap. Michael hadn’t come here to be treated like a fucking customer.
He slouched moodily back to his room and took a look in his bag to see if there was anything salvageable. His phone dripped water when he picked it up, so he didn’t dare turn it on. Better ask for some rice to bag it up with. Trix had not only emptied his toiletries bag of anything liquid, she’d refilled it for him. With shaving foam. His brand-new copy of Bike magazine had all the pages stuck together. Michael slung the lot back in the corner, his disgust mingled with grudging admiration for a job well done. Then an idea hit.
Hadn’t checked out Rufus’s rabbit hutch yet, had he?
After an automatic glance in the mirror—yep, he still looked like shite—Michael crossed the hallway to Rufus’s door. Should he knock?
Nah. Michael opened the door and walked straight in.
For a moment, he thought the room was empty. Then he realised that what had seemed at first glance to be an unmade bed with the duvet left in a heap, was actually an occupied bed with someone hiding under the duvet. Michael grinned.
Then he leaped.
There was a muffled, “Argh!”
The lump in the duvet squirmed furiously, but was no match for Michael. Heh. He pinned it under his body, then peeled back the edge of the duvet until tousled blond hair and a bright-red face appeared.
“You wanker,” Rufus said, gasping for air.
“Wank you off if you want,” Michael offered, feeling in a giving mood. Then he remembered the clothes Rufus had brought him and felt a lot less generous. “Or you could give me that blowjob you owe me.”
The pink forehead furrowed. It was kinda cute. “What do you mean, I ‘owe’ you?”
“Hey, we did what you wa
nted last time. This time it’s my turn.” Michael tried to grope Rufus’s dick through the duvet, but it was pretty hard to tell what was what through fifteen togs’ worth of hollowfibre.
Rufus’s expression didn’t magically change from annoyed to turned on, so he was fairly sure he’d missed and grabbed a knee or something. “There’s not going to be a this time. My parents are still downstairs, you know. And the living room’s directly under my room here.”
“Yeah, but your dad’s old. He’s probably got the telly turned way up high.”
Rufus pouted. Fuck, Michael wanted to bite that lip. “My dad’s not old. He’s just mature. And his ears work perfectly well, which is why we’re not getting up to anything with them in the house. I need to do prep for tonight’s dinner, anyway.”
Michael sat back on his heels, still straddling Rufus. With the duvet in between them, it wasn’t as much fun as it should have been. “Dinner? That’s hours off.”
“Yeah, but good food takes time.” Rufus wriggled and pushed the duvet down off his arms and shoulders, leaving a bloody great wodge of it up against Michael’s crotch.
Michael frowned. Something wasn’t right here. “It’s your birthday, right?”
“Yeah.”
“So, leaving aside the whole question of why your dad and your evil stepmum have got you acting as their skivvy, why don’t you just put your feet up and order a takeaway?”
Rufus stared at him. “Why?”
Michael stared back. It wasn’t like he hadn’t understood the question, cos it was only one word long and it wasn’t even a big word. It was more like he instinctively knew Rufus wasn’t gonna understand the answer. “Because cooking’s boring as shite and it never tastes as good as what your mum makes, so why bother?”
Rufus blinked. “I like cooking. Always have.”
“Why?”
“What’s not to like? It’s like making little artworks on a plate. And then you get to eat them at the end.”
“Uh-huh.” The closest Michael had ever got to art in the kitchen was when he’d put extra bits of ham on a pizza he was warming up for his tea cos Mum was ill, and made them form the shape of a penis.
It’d been a pretty impressive penis, mind. He’d added slices of salami for bollocks and extra cheese for spunk. Then he’d nearly wet himself when Mum came into the kitchen to check he hadn’t starved to death just as he was taking it out of the oven. Luckily she’d been too woozy to notice anything, and he’d packed her straight off back to bed.
“I’m doing duck for tonight. Oh, and you’re going to meet my best friend. Liz. She’s a lesbian, but if you call her Lizzy the Lezzy she’ll cut you.” Rufus stretched his arms up and put them behind his head.
Great. Michael wasn’t big on lesbians. They always seemed to hate him on sight, or at least as soon as he opened his mouth.
“She’s bringing her baby round,” Rufus added, rubbing salt in where he’d just stuck the knife.
Michael wasn’t keen on babies, either. All they ever did, in his considerable experience as an uncle of seven, was cry, puke, and shit. He’d liked all his nieces and nephews a hell of a lot better once they got out of nappies. Especially since his sisters had kept teasing him about making him change one cos he needed practice for when he was a dad. Didn’t they realise it was making him wanna swear off women for life? Not that he would, obviously—Mum’d have a fit—but he certainly wasn’t in any hurry to marry one.
“So if she’s a lezzer, who’s the dad? Some test tube somewhere and a turkey baster?”
“Nah, Liz was going out with this trans girl for a while and they got drunk one night and didn’t use a condom.”
Michael didn’t ask. He didn’t wanna know.
“She pays support,” Rufus went on. “As much as she can. And she visits Kieran sometimes. But her girlfriend now is, like, dead jealous—I mean, seriously, she turns into the She-Hulk and starts smashing stuff—so it’s sort of awkward.”
“Who’d of thought it?” Michael said sardonically. Probably. Sardonically had been one of last week’s words, and he wasn’t sure he was remembering it right. “So tonight’s dinner’s gonna be you, your dad, your stepmum, and your best mate. And me, am I right? Look, no offence, but I reckon I’d be a lot more comfortable leaving you with all the happy family stuff and going out to the chippy.”
Cos seriously, it was way too early for all the meet-the-family crap. Even if he had already met the family. And come to that, “never” would still be too early to meet the family, since this wasn’t a relationship, was it? This was just a . . . a hookup. On a repeat setting. Hopefully. With added family. And friends. And talking to each other about stuff that wasn’t just there and harder and fuck yeah.
Michael gave up trying to work out what this was. It was doing his head in. And anyway, Rufus was pouting again, and it was distracting him.
“I want you to come to my birthday dinner.” His expression turned sly, or at least what passed for sly on Rufus’s angel-perfect face.
Shit, Michael had it bad.
“It’s included in the room rate,” Rufus finished.
At least he wasn’t so far gone not to catch an obvious lie. “No, it’s not. Bed and Breakfast, yeah? That’s what it says on the sign.” Michael folded his arms.
Bad move. Rufus took his chance to wriggle out from under him and jump off the bed. “Yeah, well, it also says Closed until Easter, so suck it up and deal. You want a room here off season? You’re coming to dinner.”
Rufus ran down the stairs, wondering if he was playing a bit too hard to get. Especially since he’d been got pretty thoroughly once already today. After all, it was his birthday. And he wasn’t a kid. Even if Dad and Shelley walked in on him with his ankles in the air and Michael’s dick in his arse, they probably wouldn’t get mad. Dad would just cough and mutter something about putting the kettle on, and Shelley would giggle and give him a nudge and a wink later. Probably.
On the other hand, it was kind of fun winding Michael up. And he really wasn’t all that attractive in Dad’s clothes.
Okay, that was a lie. He was still hot as hell. It just felt all sorts of weird and wrong getting turned on by him when he was dressed like that. Rufus was probably going to have sexual hang-ups for life because of it.
But he did need to get on with prep for tonight. And get Michael’s clothes out of the washer and bung them in the dryer so Liz wouldn’t laugh her head off at him when she came round tonight. He hoped she’d like Michael. Yes, yes, of course she would. What was not to like?
Rufus decided not to think about that question too closely.
He’d got downstairs not a minute too soon, anyhow, as Shelley was at the washer, sorting through Michael’s things. “Ooh, don’t he wear tiny little briefs?” she said, holding a bright-red pair up so Rufus could see. “You’d think he’d get pins and needles in his— Oh, hello, love.” She smiled at Dad, who’d walked in at that moment and was now backing out again. “I was just helping Rufus with the laundry.”
“That’s all right, I’ll take over now,” Rufus said, before she could put Michael’s sweater in the dryer and shrink it to Rufus’s size. Although on the other hand . . . No, no, that wouldn’t be fair on Michael.
“You’re a treasure, love,” Shelley said, sitting down at the kitchen table with a grateful oof and opening her magazine.
Rufus bunged the cottons in the dryer and hung the rest on the airer, by which time Michael had joined them. “Put the kettle on, would you, love?” Shelley asked without lifting her eyes from the latest celebrity scandal.
“Uh, right. Okay,” Michael said, looking around the kitchen.
“Oh my God! Sorry, Mr. O’Grady, I thought you were Gerald.” Shelley giggled. “It’s the clothes. Mind you, they look a bit different on you.”
She wasn’t wrong. Oh god, had Rufus made a serious tactical error? Would seeing Michael in Dad’s clothes just make her compare them all the more? And find Dad wanting? Worse, leave Shelley wanti
ng?
“Call me Michael.” He grinned. “Seeing as I’m wearing your old man’s trousers and all.”
“Michael, then. So what brings you to the Isle of Wight?”
Michael looked shifty. “Just fancied a break. Any chance of a cup of coffee?”
“Course, love. Is that kettle on, Rufus? And you’ll make the coffee, won’t you, love? You know I’m rubbish at it.”
“Yeah, course,” Rufus said, getting out the cafetière. “You want a cup of tea, Shelley?”
“Please, love. Why don’t you come and sit down, Michael?”
Michael glanced at Rufus. “Uh, that’s okay. I’ll make the tea, yeah?”
“No, don’t be silly. You’re a guest.” Shelley beamed at him and patted the chair next to her. “Now, if you want to read a newspaper, there’s the Mail or the Telegraph, ’cept I’ll have to get the Telegraph off Gerald. We normally get extra in during the season, but—”
“Uh, the Mail’s fine,” Michael said. “Sure you don’t wanna hand there, mate?”
Rufus stared at him, surprised. “No, thanks, I’m fine.”
Shelley beamed. “In’t he a treasure?”
The rest of the afternoon was a bit weird, with Michael hanging out in the kitchen while Rufus prepped the food and started cooking. Wasn’t he bored? Nobody could take that long to read the Daily Mail. Especially as Michael only seemed to bother with the sports pages and the comic strips.
Liz turned up early for dinner, as usual, so she could offload Kieran onto Shelley and help Rufus in the kitchen. There was always stuff that couldn’t be done in advance, so it meant he had some company while he was getting things finished off. Liz had done the same hospitality and catering evening class Rufus had, so she knew how to plate up a meal. Unlike, say, Dad or Shelley, neither of whom could be trusted to drizzle properly.
Like any good mate, Liz walked straight in the side door without knocking, a rucksack on her back and a toddler on her hip. Rufus was just straining the sauce, with Michael by his side making helpful comments like “I’ve never seen my mum do that” and “Why don’t you just let us bung on some ketchup?” He’d changed back into his own clothes, which made him even more of a distraction. Fresh out of the dryer, Michael’s jeans and T-shirt clung to him like a drowning man who’d decided he was going to get some before he died.