by JL Merrow
Phil sort of deflated. “You didn’t like him?”
“Seriously? That is an actual, serious question?”
“You seemed pretty bloody chummy at lunch.”
“I thought you’d appreciate me putting the bloke at his ease. Make it easier for you to get him to talk.”
“Oh, he talked all right. Wasn’t about the bloody case, though, was it?” Phil turned away. “I’ve been trying for months to get you to experiment. Do something with your dowsing—find out how it works and how you can use it best. Then he turns up and you’re all ‘Wanna show me your crystal?’”
“That was to get him off my back! And I tried stuff with you, all right? It didn’t work.”
He met my gaze. “Because you didn’t take it seriously.”
“Yeah, well, you ever thought I might feel like a right prat, trying to channel some mystical sodding energies I know you don’t believe in and I’m not sure I do either?”
Phil frowned. “How can you not believe in it? You know you’re not faking it when you find stuff.”
“Yeah, but . . . I just do it, don’t I? I don’t, I dunno, light a bloody candle and chant stuff with my shoes off.”
“What have your shoes got to do with it?”
“I dunno, do I? Just something Cherry said. About Frith. The . . . thing. Not the bloke. It’s some Scottish divination thing, which I reckon is why old Lance was so into it all. Not ’cos he’s after a bit of rough with yours truly.”
“What, he can’t multitask?”
I glared at him.
“Joking, okay?” Phil ran a hand through his hair. “Look, I—”
He broke off and gave a quick, suspicious sniff. “Is something burning?”
I turned. Shit. There was a definite whiff of carbonising bacon in the air, and the smoke alarm started to screech. I switched off the grill quick and yanked the pan out to check the damage. The godawful noise stopped, and Phil came to look over my shoulder.
“Hope you like it crispy,” I said with a shrug.
Phil reached around me to grab one of the least-burnt bits of bacon, hissing in a breath as he singed his fingers. “Still edible,” he commented after taking a bite. “If you don’t mind charcoal.”
I salvaged another slice, breaking off the blackest parts and leaving them in the grill pan. “Could be worse,” I agreed, my mouth full. I opened the window with my nongreasy hand. That bloody alarm would go off again if we didn’t get the smoke out. Then I remembered the beans, and lifted the lid fatalistically. Yep, nice bit of orange sludge there. I’d need to clean that pan with a hammer and chisel. “Fancy that takeaway after all?” I suggested, too bloody knackered to start all over again.
Maybe it showed in my voice. Phil opened the fridge and crouched down to have a proper butcher’s inside. “Got soup in the cupboard?”
“Yeah. Tomato or cream of chicken. And a couple of odd cans that were on offer.”
“Tomato, then.” He stood up, clutching a slab of cheddar and a bottle of beer, which he handed to me. “Yours. Go put your feet up. Even I can manage to heat up soup and do a bit of cheese on toast.”
I opened the beer and took a swig. Jesus, I’d needed that. About to head into the living room, I paused. “Look, you’ve obviously had a crappy day. Wanna tell me about it?” I kept my tone mild.
Phil was silent a long time. Then he took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Later, okay? Let’s get you fed first.”
“Worried I’ll start biting your leg if you don’t?” That was Merlin’s latest trick, anytime he reckoned dinner wasn’t coming quick enough. Speaking of which . . . “Oi, where’ve the cats got to?”
They’d been in the kitchen when I’d started cooking, drawn by the siren tones of the fridge door opening, but were now nowhere to be seen. I ambled into the living room and found Merlin pacing nervously on the windowsill while Arthur sat on the sofa, only the kneading of his paws on the cushions betraying he wasn’t quite as laid-back about things as he was trying to pretend. I sat down to pet him. “Sorry. Mum and Dad having a domestic.” Obviously, I saw myself as Dad in that little scenario.
Shut up.
I could tell Arthur had forgiven me already. He only clawed me lightly when I pulled him onto my lap. Might as well give him a bit of attention while I waited for my dinner.
The soup turned up with that gritty texture that means it’s been overheated, and the toast corners were burnt. It was the best meal I’d had in ages.
I didn’t tell Phil that. He’d only have thought I was taking the piss.
Arthur had stalked off, his dignity wounded by me trying to use him to rest my plate on. Merlin gave Phil’s legs a quick sniff and a cheek rub, then carried on stalking twitchily while we ate in near-silence.
“Gonna tell me about it now?” I asked gently, when we’d finished.
We were sitting on the sofa, the telly with the volume down low, showing a darts match neither of us gave a toss about.
Pun not intended.
There was a long pause, then Phil huffed and spoke. “It was how it started with Mark, all right? He had a load of hobbies. Interests. I wasn’t working regular hours, so he’d find other people to spend time with. People he had stuff in common with, besides just watching the telly and all that. After a while, he just . . . stopped loving me. I wasn’t enough for him. Not anymore. So these blokes he took to the art galleries and stuff . . .” Phil shrugged. “He started screwing them as well.”
Jesus, what a bastard. “And he left you for one of the blokes he hooked up with?”
Phil shook his head. “No.” He gave a bitter half laugh. “I left him, in the end. We had this row . . . Would you believe it, he couldn’t even see what the problem was? Kept asking why I was getting so mad about him screwing other men when I’d never been that into him anyway.”
“Well . . . had you? Been that into him?”
“I fucking loved him.” Phil looked up at me, then, his eyes raw with emotion.
Something inside me snapped painfully at that. I told it to fuck off and die.
This wasn’t about me.
Yeah, it said. That was kind of the point.
“Shit,” Phil said, taking me by both arms. “I’m sorry. Just what you want to hear from your fucking fiancé, that, isn’t it?”
“Nah, ’s okay,” I managed. “I mean, course you’ve had blokes you loved before me. Just ’cos I never . . .” I shut up then.
Phil’s face had changed. “You? With the old Paretski charm? You must have.”
I tried to laugh it off. “Short-arse crip like me? They weren’t exactly queuing up at my door.”
Too late, I realised what I’d said. Phil had paled. Him and his bloody guilt complex. “Didn’t mean it like that,” I added quickly. “Just meant . . . There wasn’t anyone, that’s all. Not anyone who really meant anything.”
Phil’s hands tightened on my arms, then relaxed just as I was about to mention the possibility of bruises. He moved them up past my shoulders to grasp my face in both hands, and kissed me.
Christ, it was like we’d been apart for a month. A year, even. His lips crushed mine, his fingers by contrast oddly gentle on my jaw. He tasted of melted cheese and charcoal, which went pretty bloody well with the beer I’d been drinking.
And of hunger. Definitely hunger. And I don’t mean for more cheese on toast.
I didn’t remember putting my hands on his waist. I was glad they’d managed to get with the plot without me, and decided a bit of positive reinforcement was in order, so I pulled his shirt up and out of his trousers. Yeah, skin was definitely better. I ran my hands up and down his sides, so warm and solid, and played a bit with his nipples, which were becoming more solid by the minute.
Phil kissed me again, one hand still holding my head while the other dipped down the back of my jeans to grope my arse. There wasn’t a lot of room to play with, so it was just as well Phil’s a determined sort of bloke. Then he made a noise of frustration into my mouth, whi
ch was hotter than you’d think, and let go with both hands so he could work on undoing my jeans. “Christ, Paretski, did you shrink these in the wash?”
“Nah, putting on weight from all these meals you keep cooking me.” I grinned and lay back on the sofa to make it easier for him.
“Cocky sod, aren’t you?”
Well, he’d be the best judge of that, seeing as he had my flies undone and his mouth almost on my dick. Then there was no more almost about it, and I groaned aloud at the sensation of him sucking me through the cotton of my kecks. “Christ, that’s good.” I felt hot all over, as if his breath on my stiff prick had been enough to tip me over from ambient temperature to Jesus Christ, she’s gonna blow. Desperate for more, I scrabbled at my jeans until I’d got them and my underwear down past my hips. Then I stripped off my T-shirt for good measure.
Phil licked a stripe up my cock and rolled my balls with one hand, the other rubbing up and down my side like I was a startled horse that might bolt at any mo.
I could’ve told him there was absolutely no danger of that. Well, if my brain had actually been working, instead of short-circuited by pleasure, I could’ve. “Don’t stop,” I urged.
Phil looked up at me and smirked. “Sure you don’t want me to try something else?”
“Like what?”
“Like this,” he said, and sucked me down.
Fuck me. I gasped, struggling not to buck up into that gorgeous mouth of his, so hot and wet and fucking, fucking perfect. Phil’s hand slipped down to my hip and held it firm—on my good side, which if you think was an accident, then you’ve never met Phil Morrison. I was panting, an arm thrown over my eyes because it was so fucking good, and then he started to alternate sucking with teasing my cockhead with his tongue, paying extra attention to that spot just underneath the head.
I lost it. Howling loud enough to bring half the neighbourhood round to complain about the noise, I came in a stream of shuddering ecstasy that seemed to go on and on. “Oh God,” I breathed, and pulled Phil down on top of me for a spunk-flavoured kiss, squirming a bit at the pressure his iron-hard rod was putting on my frankly knackered cock.
“Kneel up,” I told him at last. “Kneel astride me and wank yourself off.”
Phil had his trousers off in two shakes of a lamb’s wotsit. He did as he was told, settling his knees on either side of my chest, far enough up that I could get a hand on him too. I grabbed a handful of that magnificent arse and squeezed as I tugged.
“Come on me,” I urged him. “Come on.”
Washboard abs clenched as Phil’s balls drew up. He groaned, long and low, and spattered me with hot spunk, on my chest, my neck, my face, and— “Oi, did you just jizz in my hair?” As I spoke, a dribble of spunk went in my mouth. I licked my lips.
Phil laughed. “Why, you got a hot date tonight?”
“Too bloody right.” I grinned at him, totally, gloriously happy.
I tried to pull him down to kiss him again, but he resisted.
“Hang on a mo.” He stripped off his shirt and used it to wipe up the mess he’d left on my face and chest. Then he lay on top of me, and we snogged like teenagers.
Well. Like teenagers who’d just had a really good shag.
We had to make do with a snatched bit of toast for breakfast, as we were running late. Well, we weren’t when we woke up, but we definitely were by the time we managed to finally get out of bed. Fortunately, we were both in such a good mood by then neither of us gave a toss about breakfast.
“Are you coming with me to see Arlo Fenchurch this evening?” Phil asked, pulling on his jacket.
I glanced up from lacing my work boots. “Uncle Armpit? Wouldn’t miss it. Unless, of course, you’re planning to accuse me of trying to get off with him, that is.” I grinned so he’d know I wasn’t still pissed off with him about that.
Well, not that pissed off.
Phil gave me a look. “I never said you were trying to get off with Lance Frith. I may have said he was trying to get off with you.”
“Oi, I was there, remember? There was a definite suggestion I was quite happy with the idea. And by the way, cheers for the ringing endorsement of my taste in men.”
“Picky, are we?”
“Too right. Did you somehow miss those glasses he was wearing? And I’m not even talking about hanging a dowsing pendulum round your neck.”
Phil shrugged. “Granted, he dresses pretentious, but there’s nothing wrong with the bloke underneath.”
“Sounds like I’m the one who should have been worried, then.”
He gave me a serious look then, the sort that had me in mortal danger of melting into my boots. “You’ll never have anything to worry about.”
Sod it. I had literally nought point five seconds to get out the door, and I’d really wanted that second bit of toast.
But I wanted to snog my bloke silly more.
I made it to Mr. L.’s confusing country cottage (at some point, someone must have rerouted a lane, as the front door was round the back) only five minutes late. I don’t think he even noticed. He was on the phone the entire time I was there—putting in a new loo, which turned out to be a bastard because the soil pipe had been a botch job—and didn’t even hang up or put ’em on hold while he paid me. Needless to say, I didn’t get the cup of coffee I was desperate for.
All in all, by the time I’d finished the morning’s jobs, I reckoned I was well justified in calling up Gary and getting him to meet me for another pub lunch.
I know, I know. But, well, Phil had given me a lot to think about. And sometimes you need to talk stuff through to know how you really feel about it, yeah? And it was Friday anyhow, which made going to the pub at lunchtime practically obligatory.
This time, I’d picked the pub, so we met up at the Duck and Grouse. It’s only up the road from the Four Candles, but streets away in terms of atmosphere, in my humble opinion. The sort of place that still has regulars who only go in there to drink beer and get away from the wife. I’ve got no idea where the wives go to get away from their husbands, but it’s not the Duck and Grouse. The female clientele tends to be (a) young, single, and boisterous and (b) outnumbered.
I sank onto a barstool and had a squint at the menu while I was waiting for the barmaid to notice me. It was chalked up on a board on the wall, and hadn’t changed for as long as I could remember, but you never know.
My vigilance was rewarded: I spotted a sneaky change from steak and kidney pie, chips, and peas to steak and ale pie, chips, and peas. I decided to play it safe and stick with a ploughman’s. No point encouraging them in all this avant-garde bollocks.
The barmaid finished serving a bloke with a potbelly and a beard and ambled over in my direction with an unhurried tread. “What can I get you?” She was middle-aged but dressed younger, with an air of having seen it all before and not being totally averse to seeing it all again.
“Diet Coke, please, love, and a vodka martini.”
“For your invisible friend?” she asked with a smirk.
I winked at her. “He’ll be here in a mo, and trust me, you won’t be able to miss him.”
Her smile broadened. “Now I remember you. You’re Gary’s mate, aren’t you?”
“Guilty as charged.” Gary might not come in here often, but it didn’t surprise me one bit he was remembered when he did.
She sighed as she handed me my Coke. “Typical. All the best ones are either gay or taken.”
“Hey, some of us are both,” I told her, waggling my ring finger at her with a grin, because it was still a bit of a novelty to me and all.
“Congratulations,” she said, and dialled the flirting down to zero as she mixed Gary’s martini.
Right on time, the man himself turned up. He was on his own—presumably Julian had had a better offer. Date with the poodle next door, maybe? Course, that was never gonna work out. Well, not unless they stood her on a box.
“Is that for me? You’re a lifesaver. I’m parched.” Gary took a sip.
“Mm. That’s better. Now, are we eating? Silly question. Of course we’re eating.”
We ordered food (Gary braved the steak and ale pie) and took our drinks over to a table by the window. I shifted a potted plant over a bit so it wouldn’t tickle my neck when I sat down.
“Stop fondling the ferns,” Gary said distractedly, making himself comfortable with a faded velvet cushion. “Now go on, what’s the latest crisis? Much as I’d like to think you simply invited me here for the pleasure of my company.”
“Do you and Darren have common interests?” I asked, ignoring the guilt trip with the ease of long practice.
Gary gave me a smug look. “We are of one mind.”
“Yeah, right. No, I mean, you do the bell ringing, yeah, and he does the Spanish classes and the Morris dancing—is there stuff you do together?”
The look turned pitying. “Well, Tommy dearest, when a man and another man love each other very much—”
“Oi, I’m not talking about you and him having sex!”
“Bloody glad to hear it and all,” one of the older regulars muttered on his way past to the gents’.
Gary literally jiggled with stifled laughter. I glared at him and tried to pretend I hadn’t gone red.
Seriously, they couldn’t reopen the Dyke soon enough for my liking.
“I mean, like, hobbies,” I explained, keeping my voice a bit lower this time, although God knows why. That horse hadn’t just bolted, it was in the next county by now, sidling up to strangers in pubs and trying to sell them a set of used saddlery, one not very careful lady owner, sale due to change of circumstances.
“Does watching Bake Off count?”
I felt a twinge of envy. Phil was happy enough to watch ’em with me, but he just didn’t get TV cookery programs. “No. Not the telly. Something you and him go out of the house to do on a regular basis.”
Gary put on an obviously fake frown of confusion. “I thought we weren’t talking about sex?”
“Eff off. Look, do you, or don’t you?”
He shrugged so expansively his martini sloshed almost to the brim of his glass. “Not really, I suppose. But then, it’s hardly healthy for a couple to live in each other’s pockets.”