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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of author imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Waiting for Rain
© 2014 Susan Mac Nicol.
Cover Art
© 2014 Leah Kaye Suttle.
www.leahsuttle.com.
Cover content is for illustrative purposes only and any person depicted on the cover is a model.
All rights reserved. This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of international copyright law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines, and/or imprisonment. Any eBook format cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press, 5032 Capital Circle SW, Suite 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886, USA, or http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/.
ISBN: 978-1-64838-432-4
Digital ISBN: 978-1-62798-431-7
Printed in the United States of America
First Edition
February 2014
Dedication
To my family for putting up with me when the muse inside takes over and growls. To my wonderful online friends who support and encourage me. To people, past and present, who have made me who I am today.
Acknowledgments
To the beautiful town of Stamford in Lincolnshire, England, and the regal and majestic George Hotel. Both inspired this book on a rare weekend away. Both are works of art in different ways and have the knack of drawing you into their subtle beauty and remaining with you long after you have left them. I hope everyone reading this book will be able to see Toby and Rain in the Duck and Drake Hotel, modeled on the George, where the couple romanced each other among the stone houses and cobbled street of a truly quaint and quintessential English town.
To the fabulous and talented Mr. Andre Corey in New Zealand, pole dancer extraordinaire, who yielded to my request for him to enact a specific pole dance scene in my book and helped me make a book trailer we can both be proud of. You rock, my friend, and I am eternally grateful you took pity on me. :)
To the editing team at Dreamspinner, who taught me such a lot about epithets, ISAs, and ABPs, thank you. I say that tongue in cheek, but you certainly taught me a lot about the actual technical craft of writing.
And finally to Abi Ericcson, my No. 1 Waiting for Rain fan in the US, who has been waiting so patiently for this book and has spurred me on every step of the way to get Toby and Rain’s story into her hot little hands. Thanks for the support, Abi!
Author’s Note
ONE OF the best things about this book has been my increased interest and passion in all things pole dancing. This took off to such an extent that I created a pole dancing fangirl group on Facebook, and we have more than twenty well-known household names in the industry as members—men like Evgeny Greshilov, Alex Shchukin, the aforementioned Andre Corey, and Travis Scott to name but a few. Talk about having fun while you write. My fellow pole dancer devotee and site admin, Shanella McBeth, does a great job of tracking down elusive clips and making sure the guys get their due—as well as fangirling often.
I also became exposed to the wonderful music of Chris Corner and Sneaker Pimps, who performed the song “Small Town Witch,” to which Andre does his pole dance routine. I ended up buying all their albums as a result.
Chapter 1
Toby
I LOOKED down at the man I straddled, feeling grim satisfaction at the expression on his face.
Trevor is bloody terrified.
Normally when I sat across his hips we were making love, but this time, no one could mistake the look on his face for one of passion. “If you try to hit me again, I will kill you,” I enunciated slowly. “You crossed a line, and now there’s no going back.” My hands curled into tight fists at my sides, my heart beating fiercely in my chest with the adrenaline high. I tasted blood in my mouth from the punch he’d thrown at me.
Trevor looked up at me, his face pale. “Christ, Toby, get the hell off me, you bastard.” His high-pitched voice was strained. I knew that was because I’d just kneed him in the balls. The man might be singing soprano for a while to come. I shifted off him, standing gingerly, fingering my jaw. Trevor was a big man, and he packed a powerful wallop. He grasped his damaged bollocks, curling into a fetal ball. I left him lying in his small, ornately furnished lounge and walked into the kitchen. I opened the freezer, took out some ice cubes, and packed them into a tea towel. I held the cold pack against the already-swelling flesh of jaw and lips, hissing at the sting. Someone entered behind me, and I turned, ready to defend myself again. My soon-to-be-ex boyfriend of only six weeks stood in the doorway. His face was drawn with pain, and the look in his eyes was not pleasant.
“You hurt me, you psycho. Christ, I should have known better than to get involved with someone like you.”
My insides churned at the sneer in his voice. “Someone like me? What’s that supposed to mean?” But I thought I knew.
Trevor laughed harshly. “A foster kid who lived on the bloody streets and did God knows what with who knows who.”
“Whom,” I said quietly.
He frowned. “Huh?”
“If you’re going to fucking insult me, Trev, then at least be grammatically correct.” I have a tendency sometimes to make bad situations worse through what I think is clever use of my snark. Trevor decided he wasn’t a fan. He moved over to me quickly, his hand raised. He must have seen the look on my face because he stopped and lowered his hand. “You think you’re so clever, Toby. You didn’t have to kick me in the balls like that.” His voice was a mix of aggrieved hurt and suppressed violence.
I looked at him in disbelief. “You punched me across the room, Trevor, because you thought I was having it off with the boy from the coffee shop. You threatened to ‘ram your fist down my throat and fuck me till I was blue.’ Your exact words. You can surely see I might not like that scenario?”
He grunted. “You were being mouthy, as usual. And you can’t tell me you don’t fancy little Brett. You and he are always flirting with each other.”
I shook my head in stupefaction. “He’s only nineteen years old, for God’s sake! Far too young for me, and besides, I had you, remember?” He squinted his eyes at the use of the past tense. “And yes, we flirt, but we both know it’s not going anywhere.” I laid the ice pack down in the sink, moving toward the door. Trevor stepped in front of the doorway, blocking me.
“Trev, let me out,” I said. “We both know this is over. I won’t let any man knock me about like you just did.”
Trevor sneered again. “God, you are so far up your own arse, Toby. It was just this one time. And you made me do it.”
“One time is too many.” I stood in front of him, holding my ground. Trevor was a bully, and I’d learned most times if you stood up for yourself, they’d back down. “It’s best we just part ways now. I don’t need a jealous arsehole as a boyfriend, even if the pickings in town are lean. I’d rather do without, thanks.” I held his gaze, and finally his eyes slid away. He moved slightly to one side. I brushed
past on my way to the lounge, half expecting him to hit me from behind. I picked up my jacket from the back of the chair, and slung it over my shoulder. There was very little of me in his flat, even though we’d spent quite a bit of time there. We hadn’t graduated to me keeping a spare toothbrush in the bathroom, or extra clothes. I rarely stayed the whole night anyway, preferring to walk the half mile up the road back to my own place. My apartment room at the hotel I worked at wasn’t suited to booty-call visits. I liked to keep my private life separate from work.
“I’m probably better off without you anyway,” he said vindictively. “There’s loads of blokes who’d like me to bend them over and give them one.” He waved dismissively. “And you weren’t that great in the sack anyway.”
I ignored his attempts to piss me off as I made my way to the front door. My lip stung, my jaw ached, and all I wanted to do was get home, take a painkiller, and fall into bed. It was almost 9:00 p.m., so I’d even have time to watch True Blood before I went to sleep. As I opened the door, I turned to face him.
“Stay away from me, Trevor,” I said as I stepped out into the corridor. “Let’s just make this a clean break with no drama. I’m sure you’ll find some poor sod to take my place soon enough.”
His eyes narrowed. “You bet I will. And don’t worry. I wash my hands of you. I’ve got better things to do.”
I nodded. “Good. Then we understand each other.” I left, closing the door behind me. For a minute, I leaned against the wall, my eyes closed as I took a few deep breaths. Then finally, I walked down the short flight of stairs to the street below, headed for home.
ABOUT A month later I had another little contretemps. Mercury must have been in retrograde. I’d never realized what it felt like to be “at the end of my tether” before. I knew the expression, having looked it up in an idle moment once when I was bored. The Cambridge Dictionary defined it as “having no strength or patience left,” and UsingEnglish.com said it was “to be at the limit of your patience or endurance.” Both of these phrases were true. Personally, I preferred “fucked off beyond all restraint and ready to kill.”
I gritted my teeth, my jaw aching as the little old lady in front of me waved bejeweled and gnarly fingers in front of my face. I wanted to bite them off one by one, watching as they fell in little white and bloody strips onto the very expensive carpeting we stood on. The hotel owner wouldn’t like that one little bit. Not the fact I’d bitten her fingers off but the fact that the blood may stain his carpeting. He was no fan of Esther either.
“Young man, are you even listening to me?” Esther Mountjoy’s face was like crinkled crepe paper, her tone haughty. Faded blue eyes gazed out of a face that was immaculately painted. Her thin lips were twisted in a grimace of displeasure that I wasn’t hearing what she was saying. People passing by in the plush hotel entrance glanced at us curiously. Some were even loitering, waiting to see how the whole “square off” would turn out.
I’ve been listening to you for the last ten fucking minutes, you homophobic, ignorant cow.
My face formed into what I hoped was a reassuring smile and not the visage of a psycho axe murderer wanting to strike the woman’s head off her shoulders. Preferably with a blunt axe. “Mrs. Mountjoy, of course I am. You’ve made your point loud and clear. But I’m sorry. I can’t ask these two people to leave the hotel simply because you don’t like the fact that they are—how did you put it? Oh yes, ‘poncy nancy boys.’ I’m afraid this hotel has an open policy on things like this, and we won’t judge people who wish to stay here based on their sexual preference.”
My friend and receptionist Tammy watched me carefully from the elegantly paneled wooden reception desk. She peered over the top of her very prim and proper glasses. I think she was getting ready to pull me off the lady patron standing in front of me should I decide to go completely insane. I wanted to pick up and use the stone vase sitting innocently yet alluringly on the polished oak side table in the foyer and bash this woman over her immaculately coiffed head.
“But they’re queer, Mr. Prentiss!” Esther hissed, scandalized, her gaze darting around the busy reception area, no doubt for fear someone might hear her utter a taboo word. I wanted to break into song and chant the old Northern maxim “there’s nowt so queer as folk,” but I didn’t think that would help.
“They are two gay men who have paid to stay here like everyone else, Mrs. Mountjoy.” My smile was starting to crack, my hostility level rising.
Christ, I was so bloody sick of this attitude. I’d faced it all my life.
“Mr. Wren and Mr. Carmichael have every right to be here.” I clenched my hands by my sides, my fingernails cutting into my palms. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Tammy twitch and half stand from behind her position at the reception desk.
“Then I shan’t be coming back here, if people like that are allowed to soil these beautiful premises with their presence.” Her satisfied, smug words sent an immediate jolt of fury to my chest. “It’s scandalous, that’s what it is. That God-fearing folk like me and Mrs. Wainwright have to put up with that disgusting filth in the same place we lay our heads at night. Isn’t that right, dear Selma?” She turned to the tall, spare woman standing quietly at her side, who looked uncomfortable at her proclamation. Her eyes were raised to mine almost in apology. Selma Wainwright had always been open-minded as far as I knew. My head pounded at the description of two gay men as “disgusting filth.” My temper rose, and I groaned inwardly.
Keep it loose, Toby. For God’s sake, don’t go bloody ape shit. Not here.
“Well, Esther darling, the man does have a point. They have paid—”
“Selma!” Esther was totally floored. “You don’t mean you agree that they should stay here?” Selma’s face colored, and she lowered her eyes. A man chuckled in the corner, and I glanced over. He was on a mobile phone, and I didn’t think he was laughing at the event taking place. In my present mood I would have whacked him with said vase as well.
“Mrs. Mountjoy—” My strangled voice cut off as I felt a firm clasp on my shoulder. My boss, the hotel owner Simon Winslake, stood beside me. His grip was both a warning and a comfort. His smooth baritone echoed through the hallowed entrance of the venerated Duck and Drake Hotel.
“Mrs. Mountjoy. Mrs. Wainwright. May I ask you to come with me to the Orchid Room, where you can enjoy a lovely afternoon cream tea and we can talk about what it is that concerns you? I can assure you that young Toby here is only carrying out my wishes. Perhaps you might like to address your worries to me personally so I can let him get back to his job.” Simon’s voice had always sounded like sherry to me, rich, warm, and dark, with a hint of smokiness. He was the complete stereotype of the English gentry. About forty, tall, handsome, and wiry, with silver-streaked dark-brown hair, tanned cheeks, and dressed to kill in a tweed suit which looked casual but which I knew was from DAKS.
I felt peeved that I hadn’t been able to let loose on the woman standing before me with the gleam of victory spread across her features, but also relieved that Simon had stepped in when he had. I gave him a slight nod, and he smiled at me warmly. I felt a surge of affection for the man. He was always there for me when I needed him. He was my mentor and a good friend. He touched Esther Mountjoy’s shoulder, and she preened. I scowled.
What would the stupid woman do if she knew she’d been touched by a bisexual man? Go home and take a bloody shower and use her pumice stone to scrub her wrinkly skin? Simon was bisexual but kept his dalliances with men private. Only a select few knew of his sexual proclivities. I was one of them. I wished I could tell her so she’d scrub so hard she bled bile.
Simon continued. “Now do come with me, ladies, and let’s see what we can do about all this. I’m sure we can come to some amicable agreement.” Simon shepherded the two women off toward the richly decorated and extremely plush Orchid Room in the other wing. I watched them go, breathing a sigh of relief. I unclenched my hands and frowned when I saw crescent marks etched into my flesh. One of the
m was bleeding. I licked it absently, then felt a hard punch on my back. I scowled and looked around to see who was abusing me.
“God, Toby, don’t be so disgusting. You’re licking blood off your hand in public, in front of guests.” Tammy stood behind me, smiling, her eyes watchful. “Come on over here and let’s chat.” I was pulled unceremoniously over to a small room behind the reception desk which served as our office.
“I need to get back to work, Tam,” I started to say, but she frowned and held my undamaged hand tighter. I sighed, knowing it would do no good to argue. The woman was a pit bull. I followed meekly. She turned to look at me.
“Are you all right, sweetie? God, that woman was such a bitch. I honestly thought you’d rip her throat out.” Her brown eyes regarded me through the lenses of her designer glasses, her rounded face full of concern. Tammy Whittaker was my best friend and confidante. We’d known each other for nearly four years, ever since I’d been at the Duck and Drake in the town of Stamford in Lincolnshire. Tammy had been here five years, having arrived here as a green twenty-year-old and making herself indispensable. I’d started out as a hotel porter when I was just twenty-three. I’d worked my way up to the position I’d held now for three years as general manager. I was proud of that accomplishment at the tender age of twenty-seven. Seeing where I’d come from, I think I had that right.
I nodded at her. “Yeah, I’m fine. I was getting riled, so it’s lucky that Simon intervened when he did. But I should have been able to handle it, Tam. It’s what he pays me to do.”
“I don’t think he wanted blood all over his hotel, Toby,” Tammy said wryly. “And if he’d left you with her, he might well have had buckets of it.” She touched my cheek, looking up from her five-foot-four height to my six-foot frame, and reached up to plant a warm kiss on my cheek. “It was getting personal for you, darling. Those things she said—I know how you feel about it. And so does Simon.” Tammy was the only other person at the hotel who knew about Simon’s sexual orientation.
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