by Clare London
“Yeah. Right. Not the sorta thing to drink with y’ cockles on a Friday night.”
“Of course not,” Alex said quickly, wincing as he heard his clipped vowels against Percy’s easier, countryside chat. Funny how he’d only recently begun to notice the contrast. “I mean, I haven’t tried cockles before, at least only in a Mediterranean seafood medley—”
“Seafood medley?” Percy interrupted with a snort. He made it sound like Alex dined as far away from Bristol as Saturn. “That’s in a plastic rather than a polystyrene tray, right?”
“Lay off,” Alex grumbled.
“You gotta learn to take a joke, boy.”
“I will, when I hear one,” Alex snapped, too late to bite it back.
But Percy’s raised eyebrow implied that, this time, he appreciated Alex standing up for himself. For an odd moment, his gaze rested on Alex, as if unsure what to make of him. Then they were both interrupted.
“Don’t think Harry is into cockles, Percy. More like caviar and canapés for him.” It was Stuart, chipping in with his pathetic jokes again. Plus he scandalously mispronounced canapés. Alex sighed to himself, wondering how much longer he could last without punching Stuart in the mouth. Dammit. He couldn’t get fired yet.
At last he had Tate on his side, and they were going to sort this out together. Alex had taken every opportunity he could to investigate on his own, but while the warehouse guys were eager to gossip about the recent hiccups in the distribution process, none of them had offered much in the way of what or who was at fault. Nor did any of them look particularly guilty.
The one unassailable fact was that the worst mishaps had happened with the high net worth wines. It made sense, Alex supposed, that if someone were looking to sabotage Bonfils’s business, they’d target the profitable lines. The stock held up at customs had been one of the more expensive wines; the labels that had been defaced were on a pallet of the best Bordeaux. And the latest confusing movements in the warehouse were also affecting the premier stock.
The most treasured product should have been the safest. There was a separate secure storage area for it in the warehouse, with a specifically designated unloading bay. Alex had been keeping an eye on the store whenever he could, but it didn’t look as if anyone had tampered with it. The room was controlled with a key card lock and, as far as he could see, access was restricted to only a few people: Percy, Tate, and Stuart were among them. Jamie and a couple of other employees sometimes worked with Stuart on unloading and loading, and Percy accompanied an extra cleaner into the store on one occasion. But no one, including the cleaner, was ever left alone at any time. That was where they stored the early bottles of Angel’s Breath, which were still going through final quality control. Imagine something going amiss with them!
Alex continued to be both astonished and depressed at how little he’d known about the working of Bonfils business before he started here. How the hell could anyone evade the authorized staff to get inside the warehouse and do any damage? Unless the mischief-maker was authorized staff. That was his conclusion, and Tate seemed to agree with him now.
A hand landed on his shoulder, a warm breath at his ear. Alex nearly bit through his tongue with shock.
“Sorry if you didn’t hear me coming. Are you okay?” Tate sounded just as startled.
“Oh. Yes. I mean, of course. You just caught me—”
“Woolgatherin’ again,” Percy grunted, appearing behind Tate. “Keep y’ mind on the bloody job, boy. Tate, are y’ here to help or get in the way?”
Tate rolled his eyes. “No, I have a new transport company representative to meet in five minutes’ time. I’ll be away from the warehouse for an hour or so. Just wanted to let Alex know I need a word with him later.”
Alex didn’t take much notice of the brief look Tate and Percy shared. He’d been plunged back into his daydreams. Tate had a tantalizing scent that was less cologne than caramel. It made Alex’s mouth water at the same time as his cock stirred. Alex knew it wasn’t likely—as they’d both showered since last night—but he imagined he could still smell Tate on his skin, see the glimmer of Tate’s sweat, feel the strong palms, the limber legs thrown astride Alex’s hips, Tate’s sticky seed on Alex’s belly….
“See you later?” Tate murmured to Alex. For a moment, he looked as if he had something more to say, but it passed. Taking his hand off Alex’s shoulder, he turned to leave.
“Bloody well hope so,” Alex replied quickly. When Tate’s mouth twisted into a wry smile, Alex’s heart stuttered and damned near sang.
THERE was one more box left in bay six to move back to its correct place. Alex had offered to do it on his own, but it was heavier than he’d expected. He and Henri had occasionally helped Papa and his managers move stock in the London stores when they were young teenagers, and he’d managed perfectly well. Had Papa been humoring his sons with lightweight stock, or had modern packaging increased in weight? Despite his firm grip, the box shifted against his chest, and he staggered a step backward.
“Easy, lad,” Percy growled from somewhere behind him.
Alex twisted to avoid Percy—or the place where he thought Percy was standing—and the box shifted in the opposite direction. He stumbled again, his body now off-balance, his hip jolting hard against the edge of the shelving. “Ouch!”
To his shock, the shelving shuddered on its foundation, and dust blew up from the stacked pallets to tickle his nose. He sneezed loudly, confused. Surely he wasn’t heavy enough to have moved the unit just by knocking into it?
“Stuart, get over here, you bloody idjit boy!” The shout came from behind the shelving, in Percy’s voice. Alex was concentrating mainly on keeping his balance while a whole stack of packaged wine loomed above him. The shelf shivered, as if the boxes were moving of their own volition, shifting the pallets toward the edge.
“What the fuck?” came Stuart’s growl. “You said move the stock in bay seven—”
“I need you in six, you fool! Now!” Percy again.
The pallets creaked, a suddenly ominous sound. The highest ones were empty of boxes, lighter than the rest of the stack, and therefore quicker to slip their moorings. The top one reached the edge of the pile, and slowly but inexorably started to tip over. All Alex had time to notice was a dark mass out of the corner of his eye, then a wooden corner caught him a glancing blow to the head. With a gasp of pain, he buckled at the knees.
“Boy!”
Alex couldn’t speak, even if that “boy” had been intended for him. A heavy weight caught him in the lower back, spinning him around by 90 degrees, hurling him down toward the floor. He instinctively threw out his hands to catch his fall, and the box in his arms crashed down ahead of him.
Shit!
The pungent smell of wine rose from the floor, filling his nostrils. It was the good stuff, he remembered suddenly with a sinking feeling. I’ve smashed thousands of pounds’ worth of product! His hands had thudded against the cold floor, the palms felt bruised. The vibration of running feet juddered through him, shouts echoing in his hearing.
He tried to rise, to call for someone. Pain sliced through his head.
What the hell is happening—
Another creak. A wheeze of loose packaging.
Even as he straightened up, still on his knees, the second pallet fell. There was a whistle of air, the earthy smell of untreated wood, and a blow squarely on his shoulders that knocked all air from his lungs. He was squashed flat onto his face. Hard.
He didn’t register anything else after that except darkness.
Chapter Thirteen
SOMETHING was really wrong with the world, Alex thought.
Not in a metaphysical sense, but a very real, physical sense. For a start, things were very dark. And not just dark, but thick and sticky and oddly painful. He wondered if he was trying to open his eyes in a dimly lit room. Or maybe he already had opened them, and the room was totally dark. The circuitous thought processes hurt his head. Try it out, idiot. He opene
d his eyes and stared up into a more familiar brightness, wondering idly why all he could see were ceiling tiles and fluorescent light fittings. Why his back was up against something cold and hard. And why his head hurt like the blazes.
“Harry? Can’t he hear us?”
“Christ, that was a hell of a hit.”
Gabbling voices and the sweaty smell of bodies crowding around him.
“Don’t move him ’til we know how badly he’s hurt, y’ know?”
“He’s awake!”
“What?”
“His Highness—he opened his eyes!”
Gruff. Excited. Worried voices. The bodies clustered nearer.
Several faces swam into view. A handful of young men, in matching polo shirts; one older one, his fierce face creased with concern. They were all vaguely familiar, but damned if he could remember any names.
“Can you sit up?” the older man asked him.
Sit up? Oh, right. Alex realized he was lying on the floor, which accounted for the bizarre view. He had no idea why he was resting here, rather than in his own bed. Wherever that may be. “Of course I can,” he said, a little shocked at the sound of his own voice. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected to hear, but… everything seemed startling at the moment. The old man dropped to an awkward crouch beside him to help and, slowly, he pulled himself to a sitting position.
The older man breathed a sigh of relief. “Okay, the rest of y’ can get back to work. Give the boy room to breathe, okay?” As the other workers shuffled a few feet backward, reluctant to leave just yet, the old man peered more closely. His expression was seriously anxious. “Sit here for a moment, boy. Gather y’r wits. That was a hell of a thump y’ took. Luckily y’ weren’t out for more than a second or two.”
A thump? Out? Something floated in Alex’s memory, becoming clearer. He was in the warehouse… a pallet had shifted, then another, he hadn’t been able to move out of its way fast enough—
“The wine!” he gasped. “Dammit, I dropped it!”
“No problem.” The older man shook his head impatiently. “That’s only wine, it can be replaced. But y’re one of my boys.”
“Percy?” Two remaining employees hovered behind the older man—Percy, of course that was his name, why had that been so hard to remember?—and the one speaking was skinny and apparently nervous of approaching any nearer. “If Harry’s okay, d’you want me to mop up the spillage?”
Percy looked briefly irritated, then nodded. “Put it in the breakages ledger, too, Jamie. It was the good stuff, and we have to keep separate record of it. Y’ll have to access the secure store for the book, but don’t take anyone else in with y’. I don’t want every damned Tom, Dick, ’n Harry with access.”
“I’ll take Stuart wiv me,” Jamie said quietly. He looked so shocked, he might be ready to throw up. “Just us. Then I’ll fetch the first aid kit. You can rely on me, Percy.”
“Good boy.” Percy spoke absentmindedly, obviously still concentrated on his injured employee, because he didn’t bother to watch Jamie scurrying away.
“Wait! You mustn’t—” Alex barely recognized his own cry.
Percy’s eyes narrowed on him. “What’s up, boy?”
Behind Percy, Jamie paused, staring back with wide eyes.
“I don’t expect y’ to clean up, son,” Percy said quietly. “Y’ need to get checked out.”
“No, don’t clear up at all!” This was so irritating. Alex’s head ached and he couldn’t think clearly enough. But he had something important to tell Percy, to tell someone else he couldn’t remember at the moment…. It was about the pallets. Yes, that was it! “You need to check the pallets. They weren’t fastened properly.”
Percy’s hand was a solid presence on his arm. “It’s all right, boy. Y’ had a nasty shock.”
“Don’t patronize me!” he snapped back. It made Percy frown, and Jamie sucked in a startled breath.
Another man jogged over to stand by Jamie. “What the hell’s he on about?” He glared down suspiciously. “What does Harry know about anything, the clumsy sod?”
“Back off, Stuart,” Percy said gruffly.
Harry?
“My name isn’t Harry.” Alex was still snapping but, in justification, the pain was really fierce. “It’s Alex. I thank you to remember that. The joke’s run its course, don’t you think?”
Percy raised his eyebrows and seemed to let out a breath of relief. Stuart started to laugh, then when Jamie jabbed him in the ribs, bit it off.
“Get back to your damned truck, Stuart,” Percy growled. “Or I’ll dock y’r pay for rubberneckin’.”
Jamie scuttled off after the grumbling Stuart, and the other workers also drifted away. Percy was left to help Alex to his feet.
“Good to hear y’re as feisty as usual,” he said. “Looks like there’ll be no lastin’ damage. But come sit down by the cooler, I’ll get y’ some water. Do y’ remember what happened?”
“Why wouldn’t I?” Though everything hurt, trying to get things straight. Harry—Alex. Wine—water. Or maybe it was the physical pain racketing around in his head. Good God, as a child, he’d dismissed Mama’s migraines as headaches, time and again. He’d never do that now. Mama? The vision of a tall, slim, woman with a ready smile and the same dark blonde hair as his, flashed before him. His memories were all out of kilter: he hadn’t thought about Mama with such anguish for some time. When he moved to follow Percy over to the chairs, a sudden stab of agony down his left side made him wince.
“Go slow, boy.” Percy’s voice was astonishingly gentle.
“It’s important. You have to check it out,” Alex muttered.
“Believe me, I will,” Percy said sharply, then he gentled his voice again. “But y’ll rest first.” Percy helped him into a chair and started to draw a cup of water from the cooler.
“Has he broke anyfing?” Jamie was back again, pale face, wide eyes, clutching a green box with First Aid stamped on the front of it, and staring at Alex like he’d never seen anything like him on the planet before.
“Don’t think so, but I’m no Holby City consultant,” Percy growled. He pushed past Jamie to give Alex his water. A few staff from Packaging had sidled over to see what was going on, as well, but Percy pointedly ignored them. “Where’s Tate? Is he back from that meetin’ yet? Go get him, Jamie boy.”
Tate? Tate! Alex felt a wash of relief and need. That was whom he was waiting for—whom he had to tell! He tried to jump up from the chair but his legs felt suddenly like limp spaghetti. His head throbbed even harder—was that possible, for God’s sake?—but he knew he had to reach Tate. He needed to.
Luckily, the decision was made for him. Tate strode toward them across the warehouse floor, his expression a mixture of alarm, anger, and confusion. “What the hell’s happened? I was told there’s been an accident.” As Percy moved aside, he caught sight of Alex for the first time and his face paled. “Alex? My God, are you—”
Alex didn’t let Tate finish. “Thank heavens you’re here. Someone will listen to me now.”
“Listen to you? What about?” Tate’s gaze ranged over Alex, his eyes wide and worried, his hands half lifting from his sides as if he wanted to run them all over Alex to check he was still in one piece. “Where are you hurt? Are you thinking straight?”
Explain. Find the words! “The pallets were loose. Bay six. You see, I helped Stuart strap them together when we were moving some of the wine back to its proper place.” Despite Percy staring at him with total amazement, he struggled on, now desperate to be heeded. “It was loosened.”
“It got loose—?”
“It. Was. Loosened.” Alex was firm.
Percy glanced at Tate with a frown. “What’s he mean? And how come he knows about the boxes put in the wrong place?” He peered at Alex, brow furrowed. “You sure, boy? The bays all look the same to some. Y’ve only been here a coupla weeks.”
“Tate.” Alex leaned in, his face inches from Tate’s, startling himself with the u
rgency in his voice. “I know.”
“You’ll check it out,” Tate said slowly to Percy, who nodded.
“Thank God.” Alex grasped Tate’s arm. “Thank you.”
“That’s okay. Trust me, we’ve got it.” Tate glanced around at the spectators. “But let’s not talk anymore about it, with an audience, you know?” He placed his hand over Alex’s, then patted it tentatively.
“I’m not an invalid.” Alex sighed, but he didn’t pull away because it felt really good. He wondered if he could slide a hand around Tate’s waist and pull him in closer? Maybe not in the workplace. Shame.
“He still looks confused,” Percy offered helpfully. Or not, Alex thought, depending on whose viewpoint it was from. “Somethin’s not connectin’ in his head.”
“I’m fine,” Alex said earnestly. And so much better now Tate was here. “You want proof? Let me tell you. I’ve been working in the warehouse for two weeks, your refreshments are appalling, and Tate is my boyfriend.”
A bubble of shocked silence enveloped everyone within hearing. Then one of the Packaging girls giggled.
Tate briefly closed his eyes. A flush colored his cheeks.
Percy snorted.
“Tate?” Alex was suddenly worried. “Isn’t that right?”
“Sort of.” Tate looked very uncomfortable. “I mean. You know?”
Alex didn’t know, actually, but he didn’t mistake the warmth of Tate’s hand on his, or the smell of his skin. That was vividly familiar.
“You lot?” Percy gestured fiercely at the packaging crowd plus Jamie. “Y’ can all get back t’ work now, everythin’s in hand. And I’ll thank y’ to be discreet about this. I’ll have no bloody gossip in my warehouse about who does what with who in their private time. Y’ hear me?”
A chastened “Yes, Mr. Grove,” “Sorry, Percy, of course, Percy” came from the workers as they turned and scurried away. A couple of the girls still hung around, giggling.
