The baggage reclaim room was thronged with holidaymakers, all decked out in new, impressively colorful clothing Jack thought was likely bought specifically for the purpose of spending two weeks in the sun. In his white shirt and dress jeans, as his mother called them, Jack felt even more out of place.
The side of Spain he saw before him was not the Spain of his fantasies. He had, after all, flown out to take up a new job and start a new life for himself in Andalucia—beating aside throngs of holidaymakers hadn’t figured into his imaginings. His gap year had taught him many things—one of the most important being an ability to understand and relate to others. Tourists he could handle, but this breed of holidaymakers, intent only on lying by a pool or on a beach, eating British food and drinking British beer for two weeks before going home again, were a different breed. Jack didn’t understand people like that at all. Still, it was a new experience and that had been what he’d been searching for.
What wasn’t a new experience was finding blank screens instead of information outlining where he could collect his luggage. A brief glance at the layout of the people in the hall around him told him everything he needed to know.
People were doing a lot of standing around and a lot of talking, but not a lot of collecting luggage and carrying on with their journeys. Jack sighed. More waiting wasn’t what he needed when his nerves were almost getting the best of him. He wandered over to a nearby pillar, sank to the floor and began the delicate process of angry waiting.
“There’s a backlog with the luggage handlers.” A bottle of water appeared in Jack’s peripheral vision, proffered by a tanned hand. “And the air-conditioning has fucked up. Again.”
Jack looked up into smiling, brown eyes. Nerves of a different sort flooded through him. The man from the plane stood over him, a little closer than was absolutely necessary. He towered over Jack, an amused grin playing on his lips as he waited for Jack’s response. It took Jack longer than was polite to take the bottle from him. He had become momentarily distracted by an intricately colored tattoo of a cobra that wound its way around the man’s right ankle—its eyes replaced with a pair of dice.
The cold, dripping plastic shocked him into action. Jack stood up, allowing his gaze to explore the guy’s body as Jack got to his feet. He took in the scuffed leather flip-flops and the baggy, denim shorts, his muscled chest and stubbled chin, finally settling on the long, tight dreadlocks that framed his face.
“Thank you.” Jack gestured with the water bottle, surprised his voice still worked. “That’s very kind of you.” It was true. The heat of the April sun combined with three hundred people packed into a confined space had been testing his body’s somewhat Celtic ability to deal with heat.
“I didn’t want you to get the wrong impression of our country.” His gaze roamed across Jack as he spoke, undressing him so blatantly with his eyes Jack was surprised other people weren’t staring.
The man took a step forward and, with a pillar behind him, Jack had nowhere to go. He tried to force himself to speak, but his voice wasn’t forthcoming. Finally, he managed to shake his head. His panic-driven nerves had abated, only to be replaced with a much deeper, more intense buzz in the pit of his stomach. He watched those tanned hands reach out for him. Despite the deafening screams of his sensible side, Jack didn’t move away. He let the man grip his arm, the heat in his touch sparking like electricity across Jack’s skin. Jack remained rooted to the spot as the man stroked upwards to grab hold of his shoulder. That light pressure was enough to pull Jack slightly off balance.
In the four months since Chris had walked out on him, he hadn’t stood so close to another person—let alone been touched. He knew he should have known better, but he couldn’t stop the pulse of want kicking low in his body.
“No… Not really.” The words were hard to get out. “If anything, I should be hoping you don’t get the wrong impression of Glasgwegians.”
“I’m quite familiar with Glaswegians. I don’t have a bad impression of them.”
Jack was interrupted from the task of drowning in those dark eyes by the screaming of a baby behind him. The woman from the plane had finally made it to the terminal and was setting about issuing opinions at maximum volume on the uselessness of Spanish workers.
Jack groaned, and the man started laughing, his hand still firmly in place on Jack’s shoulder.
“She can shout all she wants. It will take at least half an hour before our luggage comes through.”
Jack translated the intonation in those words perfectly, excitement pulsing through him even as his brain told him he should try to walk away. He saw the man’s lips approaching his and he told himself it was too late to do anything to stop the kiss, even if he had wanted to.
Jack found himself opening his mouth, leaning into the kiss. He pushed his bag out of the way with his foot so there were no restrictions between them, and reached out to touch that muscular chest before tugging them closer together, pressing their bodies tightly. Jack felt the unmistakable bulge of the man’s arousal and somewhere inside, the voice of reason told him to walk away.
His body didn’t listen. When the man pulled him even closer Jack moved with him, never breaking their kiss, and when he started dragging Jack away from the crowds, Jack simply grabbed his bag and followed.
The toilets were empty, and they rushed into a cubicle. Jack’s mind was holding an aggressive debate to which his body hadn’t been invited.
One part of his brain was screaming—screaming he didn’t do things like this, screaming he had somewhere to be and a good impression to make—and getting arrested in the toilets at Malaga airport was not going to help that impression.
The other part of his brain was shouting equally loudly. Its main point of argument the very fact that Jack didn’t do things like this, never had behaved like this. That part of his brain seemed to think it was about time he started.
They broke off their kiss to bolt the door.
“I’m Basilio, just in case you wanted a name to cry out.” He winked.
Jack faltered, trying to process the words.
Basilio used the opportunity to kiss him again. As he did so, Jack felt Basilio’s hands travel to his fly and Jack made a half-hearted attempt to stop him. The man brushed his hands away, and Jack passed his fingers over Basilio’s tightly bound hair.
He felt Basilio smile against his lips. Jack’s brain was still trying to tell him to walk away, but when Basilio pulled him free of his jeans, stroking his length in a strong, sure fist, Jack moaned loudly and all thoughts of leaving disappeared entirely.
He tried to keep up the kiss, but the touch of skin on his erection chased away his coordination. Jack dropped his head onto Basilio’s strong shoulder where he stayed until the man fell away from him, pulling Jack’s jeans down to his ankles and kneeling before him. Jack forced his eyes open just in time to see Basilio’s lips close around his swollen dick. He swallowed a groan and let his eyes close again, head thrown back against the flimsy cubicle wall as he lost himself to the moment.
* * * *
Two suitcases made the lonely, repetitive journey around the carousel. Jack had cleaned up as best as the toilet facilities would allow, but he could still smell sex on his skin. When his dreadlocked friend put a gentle hand on the small of his back, Jack became aware of the sweat drying there. He sighed. He didn’t know what had come over him. All he did know was that he would now stink for his first meeting with his new employer. He decided to blame the heat, or his nerves, or the stupid idea of changing his life, which he had let fester so long he was now a thousand miles from home in a country where he knew no one.
Basilio took his hand and squeezed it tightly. “I hope to see you again soon…”
Jack nodded, and Basilio smiled, leaving him to grab both their cases before they could make another circuit of the baggage carousel.
Outside, with Basilio still walking close behind him, Jack headed through the dusty heat toward the car park where he had been
told a black BMW Saloon would be waiting for him. He allowed himself a final look over his shoulder at his intimate, new friend.
Basilio had stopped at the terminal entrance, waiting for a taxi behind the Glaswegian family. Jack watched the woman barge her way toward the first waiting car. He caught Basilio’s eye one last time, basking in the warmth of that laughing smile. Despite his nerves, which had returned tenfold with the realization that he now smelled like the end of a good Friday night, the sight of the unorthodox family reminded Jack to be grateful that he was headed for a villa on a private beach just outside of Marbella and not to the same concrete, beach-towel-strung jungles of Fuengirola or Benalmadina that his fellow Glaswegians were likely to be calling home.
* * * *
It had been a spring with August weather along the Costa del Sol. The heat was oppressive, interrupted only by bouts of sticky, dusty rain that stopped every time as unexpectedly as it started. Clark, topping up his tan by the side of the pool, was not altogether looking forward to leaving, despite the weather.
Since he had sold his dot-com business at the tender age of eighteen, he had few demands on his time aside from the unwritten rule that he spent spring at his villa in Marbella, autumn in New England with his family, and December skiing at whichever resort was most trendy and expensive. Summer was his to do with as he pleased. Since James had walked out on him six weeks earlier, Clark hadn’t felt like doing much of anything, but he had soon realized that he couldn’t stay in Spain.
Three years with James had passed in the blink of an eye, and now that he was gone, Clark wasn’t sure what to use to fill the void.
Everything around him reminded him of James’ absence and it had quickly become more than Clark could stand, leading him to break with tradition for the first time in eleven years. Clark placed his usual advertisement in The Times two months early and booked a flight to Vermont.
Accepted wisdom suggested he should be with his family at a time like this, but it didn’t feel like a particularly good idea. It felt like an even worse idea as his new house sitter’s arrival became more and more delayed.
Clark tried to breathe deeply, listening to the crashing waves on the beach just yards away from his back garden. He had been placing the same advert every June for the past eight years.
House sitter needed for private villa on the Costa del Sol. Experience of building maintenance and garden work a necessity. Nine-month contract. Generous monthly living expenses.
It was a simple advert that always drew a lot of responses. Every year Clark would spend days mulling over his decision, whittling his options down to the candidates with the most experiences and best references. This year, however, he had undergone a slight personality change, spurred no doubt by a hefty serving of whiskey the night the most unlikely application came through.
The email had been courteous enough, but it was the type of response that Clark usually deleted without even considering. This time he had read the whole email. It had been the somewhat desperate postscript that had won Jack Campbell the job. It had made Clark smile. There had been no greater reasoning behind his decision that that.
Dear Sir,
I would like to apply for the position as caretaker of your Spanish villa as outlined in your advertisement placed in The Times on March 25th. As a recent graduate from the University of Glasgow, I am looking for a new challenge and am able to spare the nine months required for the position.
I have work experience relevant to all your requirements. I have worked as a cleaner in various hotels and have worked in the retail sector for two large DIY companies, so am more than able to perform any repairs on the property as and when required. Further, I worked as a gardener throughout my teenage years so will be able to maintain the physical appearance of the property to the highest of standards. I have attached all relevant references, in addition to a transcript of my academic qualifications.
Sincerely,
Jack Campbell
P.S. I know you’re not going to give me the job. That’s okay. I’m sorry for wasting your time. I have no real idea why I’m even applying, other than that the bastard of a boyfriend I gave eight years of my life to, decided he wanted to fuck off with my best friend. And when I say fuck off, I mean bring back to our flat and fuck senseless each and every bloody night. They’ll be coming through the walls soon if they’re not careful. I need to get out. If I don’t, I may kill them both. Maybe that would be for the best. Anyway, I guess I’m just desperate. Cheers for your time. All the best with your search.
It had been far from the most professional response Clark had ever received, but Clark had hired him. For nine months Jack Campbell would live bill-free in Clark’s luxurious beach-side villa, supplemented by five hundred euros a month to cover living costs. He would also have free use of Clark’s car. In return, he would maintain the gardens, keep the house clean, and generally serve as a human burglar alarm.
Now, with his driver nearly forty minutes late bringing Jack back from the airport, Clark was beginning to chastise himself for his moment of philanthropic stupidity. Calling his lawyer was beginning to sound like a good idea.
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About the Author
Douglas Black was born and raised in bonnie Scotland. He started writing M/M erotica during his time at university when he discovered that selling adult stories to magazines vastly improved his chances of eating something other than pasta or beans on toast for dinner.
Douglas returned to the genre in 2012 with the aim of writing engaging, contemporary, sexy-as-hell stories for readers’ enjoyment. He always aims to please.
Welcome to your fantasy.
Douglas loves to hear from readers. You can find his contact information, website details and author profile page at https://www.pride-publishing.com
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