by J. L. Merrow
Table of Contents
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
About the Author
Easy come, easy go…until the heart gets involved.
English student and aspiring journalist Luke Corbin should be studying. Instead he’s facing homelessness, thanks to the lover who’s just kicking him out of their posh digs. It’s not his first rejection—his father tossed him out at age sixteen—but Luke has no problem trading his favors for a home and security. Especially with rich, powerful, handsome men.
Except now, with finals bearing down, there’s no time to be choosy. He needs a roof over his head and he needs it now. Even if it means settling temporarily for a geeky, less-than-well-off chemical engineer called Russell.
Luke’s fully prepared to put out for the guy—because after all, in this world no one gets something for nothing. But Russell isn’t just a nerd; he’s an honourable nerd who wants to save himself for someone special.
At first Luke is annoyed, but the more time he spends with Russell, the closer he comes to a devastating realization. He wants to be that someone special. Except he’s fallen for the one man he can’t seem to charm…
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Samhain Publishing, Ltd.
577 Mulberry Street, Suite 1520
Macon GA 31201
Pricks and Pragmatism
Copyright © 2010 by JL Merrow
ISBN: 978-1-60928-194-6
Edited by Linda Ingmanson
Cover by Angie Waters
All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication: September 2010
www.samhainpublishing.com
Pricks and Pragmatism
JL Merrow
Dedication
With thanks to Pen, Flic, and everyone from
VWC—not just for this one but for all the rest too.
Chapter One
I looked up from my Uni notes on Rakes and Libertines as Sebastian walked into the flat. He was a vision in Armani, as always, his sleek black hair allowed to grey artfully just at the temples and no further. He’d said once he thought it gave him gravitas; I’d told him I’d grab his arse any time he wanted.
I was lying on the rug in front of the mock fireplace wearing nothing but the Calvin Kleins he’d bought me. On the rug, because Sebastian would have thrown a hissy fit if I’d taken pens on the sofa; in my underwear, because there’s nothing wrong with giving a bloke something nice to look at after a hard day at the office.
I flashed him my best smile over my bare shoulder. “Hey, handsome.”
He didn’t smile back. There was a strange tension around his eyes that made me think that, if it hadn’t been for the Botox, he’d have been frowning. His gaze travelled down my body and stopped at my arse, and for a moment there was something almost like regret in his eyes. That was when I realised what was coming, before he even opened his mouth. “Luke, I need you to move out by the weekend.”
They always said it like that. Never “I want you to move out,” because if it was only something they wanted, maybe I’d try and talk them out of it. Safer to say they needed me to go, like it was out of their hands. Sometimes they added a bit, dressed it up with “It’s been fun”, or “Sorry”, but the bottom line was always the same. I never made a scene. After all, chances were whoever they were chucking me out for wasn’t going to last, and I might want to come back one day.
So I didn’t say what bloody awful timing this was. I didn’t remind Sebastian I’d got Finals in three weeks, and I certainly didn’t ask him where the hell I was supposed to go. I just smiled and said, “No problem. So you’ve met someone, then?” and I pretended to listen to Sebastian gushing on about this merchant banker who he swore was The One.
Not like me. I was never The One. I was just a friend with benefits and a cash flow problem. Maybe I couldn’t pay my share of the rent, but hey, I made up for it in other ways, didn’t I?
So while Sebastian was rabbiting on, I smiled and nodded and went through my mental list of places to stay. Trouble was, this end of term no one at Uni was looking for an extra lodger. Not that most students have got enough money to carry a passenger anyway. I needed a bloke with a job. Patrick (tall, built, had his own import/export business, but a tiny little willy) was back with Mark again—it wouldn’t last, but a break-up in the next week was probably too much to hope for. Calum (lawyer, gorgeous, mean streak a mile wide) was still single, but last time I was with him I got a bit tired of pretending I was into the rough stuff. Put him down as a last resort. Tom… God, when was the last time I saw Tom? Maybe I should look him up. Tonight, perhaps.
“So, anyway, you’ll be all right, won’t you?” Sebastian asked finally. I was almost touched he’d asked. Most of them don’t bother—probably worried I might say no.
“I’ll be fine, you know me.” I was smiling so widely my jaw was starting to ache. “Got a bloke in every port, I have.”
Sebastian laughed. “Well, it’s been fun, hasn’t it?”
Yeah, Sebastian. It’s been fun.
I got on the phone straight away. Tom sounded pleased to hear from me, and we arranged to meet up at the Frog and Frigate down by Ocean Village. I got there early—it wasn’t like there was anything to hang around for at Sebastian’s.
It’s not Tom’s sort of place at all, the Frog and Frigate, but it was where I met him, so I was hoping for a bit of nostalgia to kick in. It’s a bit of a student hangout, friendly and, more to the point, gay-friendly. I’d been there with a crowd from Uni when Tom had been dragged in by this idiot who’d totally misjudged him. All it had taken was a smile and a comment about how he looked like he was used to a better class of establishment, and we were on our way out of there and between Tom’s 1,500-count Egyptian cotton sheets.
Don’t get me wrong, the Frog and Frigate’s a great place—if you like that sort of thing. Outside, it looks a bit surreal, like it elbowed its way in between the buildings either side and they didn’t quite move over far enough, so now it stands head and shoulders over its neighbours and looks like it’s sucking its gut in out of sheer necessity. Inside, the décor’s a bit cartoonish. And froggy.
And they have local bands there on a Friday night. Like I said, not Tom’s sort of place at all. I smiled as he breezed in, all good looks and airy confidence, the sort only money can buy. I quite liked Tom. He was pretentious and selfish, they all were, but he wasn’t mean. Generous, even, when he thought about it. He’d buy me stuff I actually wanted, not just stuff he wanted to show me off in. “Tom!” I called. “You’re looking great!”
“You too, Luke. Très jolie. The shorter hair really suits you. Makes you look all American frat boy.” He nodded at my glass. “Want another one of those?”
“Yeah, please.” I watched him as he made his way to the bar and came back with a couple of glasses of Chablis. Still the same trim figure, showcased to perfection. He didn’t go in for fashion much, just classic stuff that really suited him. Yeah, I wouldn’t have minded getting back with Tom
even if I hadn’t been desperate.
“Cheers, Tom,” I said as he put my glass down.
“Saluté,” he replied. Just like old times.
“So, what have you been up to, Tom? Seems like it’s been ages since we had a drink together,” I added, letting a wistful note creep into my voice.
Tom beamed at me. “You are never going to guess, but…I’m getting married!” He waggled his ring finger at me. “You won’t be seeing this baby naked for much longer.”
I smiled. Bastard. Was it all a bloody joke to him, wasting my time? “Congratulations, Tom. Who’s the lucky bloke?”
Tom leaned forward on the scratched wooden table. “Well, his name’s Nigel, he’s six foot one-and-a-half, he plays squash, and he works at the oil refinery at Fawley.”
“Big, beefy, hard-hatted oil worker?” I asked. At least I was getting a drink out of this, and Tom was looking so bloody happy I couldn’t stay annoyed at him for long.
“Hardly. He’s their management accountant.” Tom pulled out his phone and showed me a picture of an average-looking bloke in a suit. “Isn’t he gorgeous?”
I nodded. “It’s just like women always say, Tom—all the good-looking ones are married or gay.”
“And in three months’ time we’ll be both. But anyway,” he carried on, “about your ‘problem’.” I tried not to cringe as he did the air quotes. “I think I may be able to help. Or, rather, Nigel’s got a friend who might be able to help you out. Russell’s his name. He’s not really your usual type, I’m afraid, but needs must, n’est-ce pas?”
I nodded again, suddenly feeling a lot friendlier towards Nigel the unknown accountant. “So what’s he like, then, this Russell?”
“He’s an engineer, a few years out of Uni. Works at the refinery, that’s how Nigel knows him. He’s doing all right, career-wise, got his own place, but, well…” Tom broke off and gave a laugh. “You’d be doing him a favour, believe me. He can’t seem to get a date for love nor money, poor sweetie. Still, c’est la ville.”
I managed to cover up my laugh by taking another swallow of Chablis. Good old Tom and his unique grasp of French vocabulary. Never failed to cheer me up. “People with money can always get a date. Trust me on that.” I raised my glass to Tom. “So when do I get to meet him? Tomorrow? After all, if he’s that desperate…”
“I’ll get Nigel to sort it out.”
Tom spoke to Nigel, who talked to Russell, and the upshot was Russell and I had a date in a café in town after he’d got back from work.
It took me a good quarter of an hour to decide what to wear. See, it’s not just a matter of putting on whatever you look best in. You’ve got to tailor it to the bloke. And to be honest, I’d never had a lot to do with socially retarded saddo types. For my date with Tom, I’d gone for fresh-faced, sporty-but-casual—hence the frat boy comment. If it had been Calum, I’d have worn tight jeans, a studded leather belt and something faintly sleazy on top. For a moment I toyed with the idea of dressing like that to meet Russell; after all, you know what they say about the quiet ones… But I didn’t want to risk him taking one look and running off screaming for his mother, so I played it safe in casual jeans and a soft blue shirt. There’s only one thing I don’t like about my looks: my eyes. When I was a little kid they were bright blue, just like my mum’s, but these days they’ve faded to grey, and where I’m blond now they can look a bit cold. But the blue shirt makes them look warmer, somehow. I left it undone at the neck, one button lower than you’d expect. Just to help Russell concentrate on the benefits of doing me a favour.
Then I brushed my teeth and headed over there. With an overnight bag, because you’ve got to be optimistic, right?
I clocked Russell the minute I walked in the door of the café. He was sitting on his own at a table in the corner playing with his mug, short stubby fingers moving nervously over the china. I was almost worried to say hello in case I made him spill his drink. Tom had been right. Russell really wasn’t my usual type. He was… Well, he was a bit of a geek. Actually, he was a lot of a geek. Round face and too-long mousy brown hair, although at least he’d washed it. An actual beard to match; and we’re not talking a neatly trimmed goatee, either. He wore a shapeless sweater over a shirt his mum must have bought him, and glasses from Nerds’R’Us. No spots, thank God. He looked around thirty, although from what Tom had said he ought to be a lot nearer my age. Still, it wouldn’t be the first time Tom had given the truth the odd nip and tuck.
Three weeks to Finals, I reminded myself. And beggars can’t be choosers. So I plastered on my best cheeky smile, pulled out the chair opposite him with a scrape and sat down. He looked up, startled, and just managed not to drench me in coffee. “Hi, I’m Luke. You’re Russell?”
“Er, yes,” he said, like he wasn’t really sure. “Nice to meet you.” He didn’t say anything else, just stared into his coffee cup as if helpful suggestions were going to spell themselves out on the foam on top. His fingers linked around the sides of the mug like he was giving it a cuddle. I wondered who’d taken away his security blanket. Maybe it was in the wash.
“Coffee any good here?” I asked. Actually I’d been here a few times before and I knew it was shite. But they were really good about letting you hang around all day when it was cold outside, and one waitress in particular was always good for a free refill if you flashed her a smile.
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?”