by C F White
Mark lurched forward, grabbing Bradley’s arms. His fingers slipped through the gooey remnants of tan oil, base oil and whatever the heck the man used to slather himself up to a beautiful sheen, and had trouble pulling him upright.
“Mark—”
“No, nope, no!”
“Mark, I just—”
“Christ, oh buggering, Christ.” Mark wiped his hands down his jeans, ridding them of the sticky residue, then without thinking, ruffled his hair. The oil made it stick up and Bradley snorted a laugh. There truly is something about Mark.
“Mark—”
“No, wait. Just wait.” Mark pointed a finger. “You do not get to do that.”
“Do wh—”
“Shit.”
“Mark, listen—”
“No, you listen! Oh, for fuck’s sake. Why do you do this? Why do you buggering do this?”
“If you could just let me—” Bradley waggled a finger at behind Mark.
“Sit!” Mark pointed to a vacant chair by one of the tables cluttered with an array of concoctions left by a hen group.
“Mark—”
“Now!”
Bradley glanced over his shoulder at the naked onlookers, then shrugged and stumbled back to sit on the chair. Mark inhaled a deep and fearful breath. He closed his eyes, bowed his head and pinched his nose. “Jaxon?”
“Yes, Mark?”
“The song.”
“Now?”
“Please.”
“Okey.” Jaxon stumbled off and a short time later the speakers blasted out the song of choice.
Mark opened his eyes. Bradley sat, Australian flag draped over his legs and arched that one perfect eyebrow. It was rather poignant that he was encased in that material, and that Mark could even do this here. The stars had aligned. If only he didn’t have an audience of more than one. He’d planned to do this in private. But the Aussie never did allow Mark to do anything by the book.
The music continued from its introduction, and Mark closed off his mind and tapped along to the beat with his trembling fingers. He now regretted he had made this stupid decision. But in for a penny…or a cent.
Not faltering his gaze from Bradley, who had clearly cottoned on to what was happening as his grin could not have been wider, Mark dragged down the zip on his leather jacket. He attempted a sway of his hips, just getting into the rhythm a little. He was fully aware he was doing this in front of four professionals. Not only could Mark not really dance in any type of capacity, let alone seductively, but also his body beneath his attire wasn’t to the standard one would expect of someone who would be stripping off his clothes. But he had no choice now. Sod it.
Thank heavens he’d consumed at least some of the rum. He continued, ruffling free of his jacket. This time he just let it drop to the floor and avoided any health and safety hazards by flinging it around his head. Then started on the buttons to his shirt.
The three onlookers all whistled and clapped, probably giving their own hip wiggling from behind. But Mark closed them off to focus on the one he needed to. Bradley sat straighter in the chair and cupped his hands in his lap. What for, Mark chose not to think about right then. Perhaps Mark wouldn’t need a band to temper his girth.
Discarding the shirt, after a bit of a tug over his wrist—he probably should have loosened the buttons on the cuffs beforehand—he danced forward, bare chest on display, and added a hip wriggle, a tushy thrust, which he believed was called a twerk in the industry, and unclipped the belt holding up his jeans.
“Far out, Mark!”
Mark twisted, setting his back firmly to Bradley, and swayed. Bradley grabbed Mark’s hips, tugging him down. Mark honoured that, until he realised he was now facing the other three strippers and so quickly whipped around once more.
Mark laughed it off, because what else could he do? Then grabbed Bradley’s hands and slapped them around his arse.
“I think I might need some help lowering these.” Mark tucked Bradley’s fingers into his back pocket.
Bradley sucked in a breath, then tapped around and found the bulge. In Mark’s back pocket, not the front one. He ripped out the box tucked inside and Mark lowered to his knees in front of him. The music seemed to fade, whether Jaxon had decreased the volume or Mark had managed to drown it out in favour of focusing all his energy on the man sat in front of him, he couldn’t be sure. Bradley stared down at the box, then flipped it open to reveal a solid band ring.
“That’s not for professional purposes.” Mark licked his lips.
“I should hope not, or you’re seriously underestimating me.” Bradley grinned and tugged out the ring from the foam inners.
“Bradley Summers…” Mark waited for Bradley to correct him. He didn’t, so Mark continued with a smile, “Will you make an honest man out of this middle-aged, crazy-for-you, tea-obsessed Brit?”
Bradley inhaled, sharply. “Are you kidding?”
“No. Are you Laughing Your Fucking Arse Off?”
Bradley met his gaze. “No, I’m not.”
“Then, will you?”
Bradley smiled. Grinned. Then cupped Mark’s face and kissed him. “You bet.”
Mark exhaled, placing the ring firmly on Bradley’s finger and stood to do back up his trousers.
“Hey.” Bradley furrowed his brow. “Don’t I get the whole lot?”
“Maybe later.”
Bradley jumped up and kissed him. “You bet, again.”
Mark picked up his shirt and slipped his arms through. Jaxon handed him the rest of his cup of rum and Mark downed it in one gulp. He needed that.
“So, can I give you your present now?” Bradley asked.
“Well, there’s hardly any point now is there?”
“Why?”
“Because I did it first.”
“Did what first?”
“Proposed.”
“Oh.” Bradley bit his bottom lip, then winced. “You thought I was going to…”
The blood drained from Mark’s face and probably left a pool of goo to rival the oil on the sparkling flooring. “Were you not? You were going down onto one knee!”
Bradley chuckled. Then pointed behind Mark. A brown bag sat beneath the bar area. “Nah, I was just lowering to pick that up.”
If there ever was a time that Mark felt like an utter fool, it was right then. The plan had been to do the strip back at home, after borrowing the CD from Jaxon, and this would all have been a private show. Once again, Mark had been thwarted. By the Aussie. At least the stars have realigned back to their normalcy.
Bradley lowered, grabbed the bag and handed it to Mark. Opening it, Mark laughed. At least that really was the perfect present.
“Now I don’t have to get up and make you tea in the morning.” Bradley ruffled Mark’s hair. “Teasmade does it for ya.” He winked, then bit his bottom lip with a suggestive smirk. “Don’t worry, though, I’ll still give you morning tea bagging.”
Turning forty wasn’t all that bad.
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St Cross: Won’t Feel A Thing
C F White
Excerpt
“You want my opinion?”
“Yes.”
“My honest opinion?”
“Yes,” Ollie repeated. “Please.”
“Brutal honest opinion?”
“Yes.”
“Even if you don’t like it?”
“Even if I never want to talk to you again.” Ollie took a sharp slurp through the straw of his smoothie and winced, his glasses tipping to the end of his nose. “Until tonight, anyway.”
“Then leave well alone.”
Ollie sighed. He sucked up another mouthful of his daily fruit and veg intake, flicked back his blond hair that had lost its vigor after a twelve-hour night shift and glanced away from Taya’s wide brown eyes. The eyes that signified she meant every damn word. Bitch.
“Told you.”
Taya freed her dark, waist-length hai
r from its curled bun and stroked it over one shoulder. She wrapped the band around her slender dark-skinned wrist then sipped her dainty cup of pink hot chocolate. The blue edges of her lips, caused by the freezing weather, were subsiding back to their usual reddish tinge with each guzzle of the pink cream and rainbow of chocolate candies scattered over her ridiculous sickly concoction. She hadn’t even offered a spoonful to him. Twelve hours straight on night shift clearly meant she needed the sugar all to herself.
“He’s not worth your time, your worry or your respect.” She clanged the cup down onto the glass surface of the table, pulled her winter trench coat over the scrubs she hadn’t bothered to change out of and reached for her packet of menthol slims.
“Neither are they.” Ollie pointed to the cigarettes.
Taya glared across the table. She unhooked the top of the packet, took one of the white sticks between her teeth and lit it with her pink lighter. Blowing the smoke into the freezing cold air, she waved her hand.
“We all have our vices, Oliver.”
Ollie stuck his middle finger up. He slapped it back down and shoved it into his jacket pocket. It was freezing, and Taya had to bloody sit outside the corner coffee shop in order to smoke her way out of the trying night shift. She was right. Everyone needed their vices, especially with what he and Taya did for a living. He sighed.
“I think he needs patience.”
“He’s got plenty of those.” Taya pointed her two fingers clutching the death stick at Ollie.
“Har fricking har. Patience with a c.”
“He’s a c all right.” Taya took another drag. At Ollie’s glare, she sighed and rested her elbow on the tabletop. “What? He is.”
“I think you may be the only female in the entire hospital who doesn’t like him.” Ollie slurped the dregs of his raspberry-ripple smoothie and shivered. He should have gone for a hot drink, but it was hard enough to sleep during the day as it was. Caffeine would only make it infinitely more difficult.
“That’s because I know him,” Taya replied.
“Urgh. Not you, too?”
“Ew.” Taya grimaced around her cigarette. “No, thank you.”
Ollie leaned back in the chair. He waved a hand to waft away the smoke drifting into his face. To give her some credit, Taya was trying to blow it out of the side of her mouth to avoid him, but the icy-cold January breeze from the earlier sleet downpour blew it straight back. Ollie zipped up his puffer jacket, folded his arms and jiggled on the cold metal chair.
“You nearly done?” He nodded to the half-full cup of violently pink chocolate.
Taya blew another puff of smoke into the air, stubbed out the remains of her cigarette and downed the rest of her drink, leaving a foam mustache on her top lip. She licked it away. “Yeah. Home to bed, miss the snowfall, back at eight. You?”
They scraped back their chairs and Ollie tucked a five-pound note under the ashtray for the servers. Anyone willing to come outside and serve drinks in this weather should most definitely get tips, even if his wages would no doubt be far less than those of the coffee baristas working this part of London.
“I should go see my dad,” he replied.
Taya linked her arm in with his, curling her slender fingers around his quilted sleeve. Checking both ways along the crossroads lined by independent boutiques, high-class restaurants, unconventional cafés and health-food shops, she steered him across, narrowly missing a black cab speeding over the mini-roundabout. The glass-enclosed bus stop’s bench overflowed with waiting passengers, so he stood, his freezing toes within his inappropriate-for-the-weather slip-on loafers numbing with each passing second, and checked the time on the electric board for when the next bus was due.
“How’s he doing?” Taya asked.
“Good days and bad days.” Ollie sighed. “Keeps calling me Tilly.”
Taya tried to hold in the chuckle but failed miserably. Ollie didn’t mind so much. A good sense of humor was always best in these situations, not to mention their line of work. He pulled Taya in closer. It was fricking freezing and snowflakes fell from the overcast sky. How would he get back to work later that night? London came to a standstill if even one flake hit any mode of public transport. Him living in the other end of the city—the cheap end—would make it all the more difficult to travel across town. On occasions when there wasn’t a downfall, he would have cycled in. But that was out of the question with the ice on the roads. And the fact that he hadn’t woken up in his own bed last night. Ollie shuddered at the memory.
“Right.” Ollie bounced to keep warm while awaiting the number 252. “It’s January. So that means New Year’s resolutions. What’s yours?”
“Quit smoking.”
“Good luck.” Ollie meant it.
Taya stuck out her tongue.
“Well, we both know mine—”
“Which you broke last night.” Taya was a bitch like that.
“I don’t believe New Year’s resolutions should start until the second week of January.” Ollie rubbed his hands together, digging Taya’s arm into his side, and wondered why he hadn’t thought to bring gloves. Ah, yes, he hadn’t had any where he’d been before his shift started. He wasn’t allowed to leave any trace of his existence there.
“Riiight,” Taya said. “So that means from today, you’ll be steering clear of arsehole men?”
“Sadly, no. Unfortunately, I will no doubt encounter many of them in my time without realizing until it’s too late.”
“Amen.” Taya saluted.
Ollie wasn’t sure what the salute was about. But he wasn’t particularly religious, so maybe that was how it was done in church these days? Or temples, considering Taya’s family were Hindu.
“So, what is your resolution, then?”
“No baggage,” Ollie replied.
“Baggage?”
“Yep,” Ollie confirmed.
The gleaming new red Routemaster bus edged along the narrow High Street, bumping over the speed mounds meant to slow the traffic down, which Ollie thought ridiculous as the morning rush-hour pileup tended to last all day in central London. The streets were filled with scuttling people carrying takeout coffee cups, cyclists braving the ice, and the occasional honking of a taxi horn. This time of the morning, most people were trying to get to work and not home from it like Ollie and Taya. He was never quite sure who was keener to reach their destinations.
“I don’t mind a complete arsehole—”
“Obviously.” Taya cut Ollie off with a raise of her smoothed-out eyebrows. That new rainbow hot chocolate had clearly contained one too many e-numbers and sent her loopy. That and the long night shift. Not that she hadn’t been a little bit loopy to begin with.
“Ha ha.” Ollie pushed her forehead. “Like, I can handle a dickhead—”
“We all know.”
“Jesus Christ,” Ollie muttered. “No more white hot chocolate with pink dye for you, okay?”
“Sorry.” Taya pressed her lips together. She rose up on her tiptoes to check on the bus’s progress but needn’t have worried, as it had traveled all of a millimeter since the start of their conversation. At this rate, Ollie might get home in time to have a shower and come straight back.
“What I mean is—”
“You don’t want a man who can’t commit because of circumstance,” Taya finished for him.
Ollie was capable of finishing his own sentences, but Taya was getting warm from flapping her lips, so he allowed it. “Exactly. I’m married to my job. I love my job. Therefore, I should have the occasional fling and become the arsehole myself.” He pointed a finger at Taya. “Don’t fricking say it.”
Taya shrugged and mimed zipping her lips up.
“What do we nurses say daily?”
“‘No, you can’t have McDonald’s’?”
“Not that one.”
“‘You’re going to feel a little prick’?”
Ollie sniggered. “Not that one either.”
“Oh, I know. It’s ‘Of
course I’ll change your TV channel for you—it’s not like I have anything better to do with my time.’”
“No! I mean the big one—‘You won’t feel a thing.’”
Taya nodded. “So?”
“So, my resolution is to no longer feel a thing.”
“Good luck.” Taya smiled. Bitch.
The bus pulled up and Ollie jogged on the spot, waiting for the doors to open. They hissed to the side, and even though he and Taya were standing correctly at the hop-on part of the Routemaster with the exit farther along the double decker, a tall man with floppy dark hair jumped straight off and bashed Ollie’s arm as he rushed up the high street, heading toward the gleaming glass frontage of St. Cross Children’s Hospital.
“Ouch.” Ollie pouted and rubbed his arm.
“Ha!” Taya jumped the step onto the bus.
“What?”
Amusement shimmered across Taya’s face as she bleeped her Oyster card onto the yellow reader. “You just felt something.”
“Oh, bog off.”
* * * *
Ollie jangled the keys in the lock of his third-floor flat and burst in out of the freezing cold. He slammed the door, wriggled free of his coat and slipped out of his comfortable loafers. Rubbing his numbed hands together, he hurried up the corridor and decided to forgo the shower in favor of sinking under his fluffy down duvet instead.
He stripped out of his jumper and jeans, threw his glasses onto the bedside table and collapsed onto the bed. Grabbing the side of the duvet, he wrapped it around his shivering body, rolled onto his front and made a human sausage roll out of himself. He shut his eyes. Of course, that would be when his house phone decided to ring. He wasn’t going to answer it. That time of the morning, it’d only be personal-injury-claim chasers or some double-glazing salesman. The answer phone clicked on and Ollie’s recorded voice wafted down the hallway into his bedroom.
“Hey, you’ve reached Ollie,” it sang out. “I’m way too busy and important to come to the phone right now, and if you’re not with me then you’re missing out! So leave a message, and I’ll decide whether to call you back. Oh, and if it’s PPI, I’ve claimed four times and turns out I’m still not owed anything. Oh, and I haven’t had an accident in the last three years. Oh, and I’d simply luuurrvve to take your survey on local facilities I use in my leisure time, if I had any. Much love—bleeeeep.”
