by Drew Hunt
Fireside Romance Book 1: First Flames
By Drew Hunt
Published by JMS Books LLC
This book is available in print.
Visit jms-books.com for more information.
Copyright 2011 Drew Hunt
ISBN 978-1-61152-086-6
Cover Photo Credit: Stockbyte / Getty Images, nikkytok
Used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.
Cover Design: J.M. Snyder
All Rights Reserved
WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.
No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.
This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It contains substantial sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which may be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Published in the United States of America.
* * * *
Fireside Romance Book 1: First Flames
By Drew Hunt
For everyone who craves sweet stories
about love conquering all.
Chapter 1
My life, like my job, was predictable, well ordered, and boring. However, the sameness was—for the most part—a comfort. When my alarm clock went off at half past seven each morning I could predict pretty accurately what I’d be doing that day. I also knew I would awaken alone when that alarm went off. That wasn’t a comfort at all.
As I wandered along the library stacks pushing my trolley, putting returned library books back on the shelves, I thought about what life would be like if it were shared with another man. A man to come home to. A man to care about. A man who would care about me. A man to cuddle up with on the sofa of an evening, in front of a real fire.
Reaching up, I pulled out a copy of Grey’s Anatomy which someone had put with the astronomy books. I replaced it with a rather battered and ancient tome on the solar system. Here we were in 1986, and that book had been published before Neil Armstrong had stepped onto the moon.
A few months ago I’d taken the bus to Leeds—Leeds being the nearest large city—and gone into a gay bar. After being rejected a few times—once pretty painfully—what little confidence I’d had regarding the dating game evaporated.
Moving along the stacks I put the anatomy text book back in its rightful place.
All a potential mate would see when checking me out would be someone plain and ordinary. I was six feet even, had dark brown hair and washed-out green eyes. My face, not my best feature, was the big sticking point.
I sighed. This mythical potential mate could not see, or wouldn’t take the time to find out what lay beneath the less than attractive exterior. If he did, he’d find someone with a big heart, someone who—if given a chance—would prove to be a fiercely loyal friend, who would put their happiness and feelings before his own. But, no, this book would most probably be judged by its cover. I grimaced inwardly at the bibliographical analogy.
The books safely returned to Dewey Decimal order, I pushed the empty trolley back to its place against the far wall.
Sinking into my chair behind the desk, I realised if my life were a book, it would be a bloody boring one. A title which would forever remain on the shelf.
Yes, I had low self-esteem. My confidence had pretty much reached rock bottom, and had purchased a pneumatic drill and was beginning to excavate. Unbidden, I let out a single bark of laughter. At least I had a reasonable sense of humour.
Mary—my colleague, best friend and confidante all rolled into one—rounded the corner and rested a hip against the desk. Unlike me, Mary was a really happy and out-going person who always had a laugh or a smile for me.
“Bloody hell, Simon, I’ll be glad when this shift is over. My feet are killing me.” She lifted her left ankle and gave it a rub.
“Well, my dear, you should have put on a sensible pair of shoes this morning, shouldn’t you?” I said in my best aged-grandmother’s voice.
She stuck out her tongue at me and immediately burst out into laughter.
“Shhh!” I said, then immediately joined her in laughter.
We often pretended to be stereotypical strict librarians, telling everyone to please remember they were in a hallowed place of study, so should conduct themselves with all due reverence. As expected, telling Mary to shush only served to make her laugh even more.
“Listen, love,” she said, trying to be serious, “have you time for a cuppa at Daphne’s after we knock off?”
Daphne’s was a cafe just a couple of doors down from the library.
“Sure.” It wasn’t as if I had anything else to fill my evening with. “My turn to buy the Eccles cakes.”
Whenever I’d tried to make Eccles cakes myself, either the pastry didn’t flake properly or the dried fruit oozed out of the slashes in the top. Daphne, or her supplier, did a much better job than I ever could.
“You’ll have me putting weight on, ya know!” Mary exclaimed, rubbing her perfectly flat belly.
“All the better for me to hold you,” I replied.
Mary was one of the few people who knew I was gay, and she ‘didn’t give a fig,’ as she so eloquently put it.
“Sauce pot.” She came around the desk. Bending, she whispered in my ear. “It’s about time you found someone to hold.”
“I know,” I sighed. We’d had this conversation many times before.
Mary squeezed my arm in sympathy. Going back to the front of the desk, she looked over her shoulder at me. “It’s a date then.”
* * * *
The rest of the afternoon passed with its usual mixture of students wanting a particular book and being disappointed to learn we either didn’t have it or it was already out on loan. The Thatcher government had caused the local authority to cut back on spending on what they considered to be non-essential services. Libraries were a soft target and had received more than their fair share of the cutbacks.
I’d got rid of Fred, the town tramp who had occupied his usual place in the reading room nearest the radiator. He’d “just come in for a bit of a warm”. He was harmless enough, and on the occasions when I’d had the time to sit and talk to him, I’d found him to be a fascinating source of information on the Second World War. He was one of the first troops to land in France on D-Day. He had lost his best pal, Henry, in that campaign. From how he spoke about him, I strongly suspected Fred and Henry had been more than just pals, but I never asked. From all accounts, Fred was never quite the same again after the war was over.
With the library empty of readers, Mary and I closed and locked the doors to the non-fiction section and went into the main office and signed out. Once that duty was done we interlocked our arms—as was our custom—and headed out of the library building and down the street to Daphne’s.
* * * *
We found ourselves at our usual table in the window, a pot of coffee between us. Neither Mary nor I liked the traditional English beverage of tea. We had also chosen our second favourite cake—cream doughnuts—all the Eccles cakes having been sold earlier.
From our vantage point looking out onto the
high street, we were able to play our usual game of man-watching.
“He’d suit you right down to the ground,” Mary said of one guy who had just come out of Boots the Chemist.
In truth the man did look kind of hunky in his black bomber jacket, the collar turned up against the cool evening.
“He’s probably married,” I sighed. “All the good ones usually are.”
“Funny, I always found the good ones were all either married or gay, so that gives you a chance with at least half,” Mary said, draining her cup.
Our other favourite game was to guess what a particular individual did for a living.
Mary’s best guess that day was to whisper to me that one man—mid-forties but still quite fit looking—was a secret agent for the Russians. He masqueraded as a prostitute to get women into bed to learn their secret recipes. He’d pass this information back to the KGB. They would then take over the western world by developing the best tasting Yorkshire pudding and selling it at an ever increasing price. Thus they’d gain enough capital to be able to buy out all the multi-national companies of the world, and hold them under the yoke of the Soviets.
Did I mention Mary had a screw loose?
After we calmed ourselves down from that piece of outlandish deduction, Mary decided it was time she headed home. She still lived with her parents and dated occasionally, but hadn’t found Mr Right, yet. I dated not at all, and of course I too was still looking for Mr Right. I had my own place about a fifteen-minute walk away. It was a rather basic two up, two down; all I could afford, but it was mine. Well, the building society’s.
Mary’s words of a few minutes earlier re-awoke something I’d been considering for a while. I’d thought about hiring a guy for a couple of hours. I didn’t think I could go as far as actually having sex with him, but perhaps he’d agree to just sit and talk, or maybe we could have a kiss and a cuddle. I’d almost approached one of these men a few times, but had always chickened out at the last second.
After bidding Mary goodbye outside Daphne’s, I squared my shoulders, set my jaw and ventured toward the back streets of our town and the red light district. Once on Gamble Street—the place where I knew a few rent boys plied their trade—I began to experience the same doubts I’d had before, but I pushed them aside and walked with the most confident manner I could muster, up to a young man of about nineteen or twenty years of age. He was wearing a faded black T-shirt which was a little on the small side for him, a pair of worn blue jeans, and white trainers. He was a couple of inches shorter than me with curly black hair. As I drew closer still I saw his eyes were grey-blue. He was good-looking, and under normal circumstances—say in a gay bar—I wouldn’t have stood a chance.
“Hi, mate,” he said in a low—and, to me, sexy—voice “What you after?” He had a faint but detectable Geordie accent. I thought it was…well…sexy.
Haltingly I asked, “Uh, what do you, um, offer?”
He smiled reassuringly. “Anything and everything, so long as we’re safe.”
“Um, would it be all right if we just went back to my house and uh,” my voice, low to start with, whispered, “Just sat and cuddled and…” I knew my cheeks were flaming red. This was a bad idea.
The man’s smile increased. “Sure, mate, not a problem.”
After agreeing a price, I realised I’d actually committed myself, we walked the ten minutes or so to my place.
Although the temperatures were about average for early September, I thought a thin T-shirt didn’t afford adequate protection, but that I guess was his business.
Conversation was a little forced on my part. We exchanged names, and he said I could call him Jim. I doubted if that was his real name, but that was his business.
We eventually arrived at my house. I unlocked the front door and ushered him in.
The front door opened into the main room.
“First things first,” I said, getting out my money and paying Jim. I guessed it was usual to deal with such things at the beginning.
“Thanks.” Jim tucked the notes into his front jeans pocket.
“Want a drink?” I offered beer, sherry. I could have kicked myself for that last. It seemed, well, inappropriate somehow.
“Do you have anything soft?”
“Diet Coke?”
“Perfect.” Jim’s smile was back. He was so handsome.
When I returned from the kitchen, can of Coke in hand, Jim was looking at my rather extensive video collection, which was shelved along one wall and all in alphabetical order—once a librarian, always a librarian.
“You’ve got a few nice titles ‘ere, mate,” he said.
“Would you like to watch one?” I asked.
I left him looking through the selection while I put a match to the fire I’d laid that morning. Although the house had gas central heating, I liked a real fire, and it wasn’t cold enough to justify switching on the boiler. After the fire had taken hold, I looked up to see which film Jim had selected.
“South Pacific has always been one of my favourites.”
I was a bit surprised; I thought he’d go for a James Bond, or some other action movie.
“It’s one of my favourites, too.” I smiled.
I put the tape in the machine and we settled down to watch. We began by sitting next to each other, but soon I lay across the back of the sofa. Jim settled himself in front of me, the top of his head under my chin. I slowly worked an arm under him, and put the other one over him, squeezing lightly. He gave out a quiet sigh.
My attention drifted from the screen to take in my surroundings. Dusk had fallen outside, and the only illumination in the darkened room came from the TV screen and the fire. I looked at the warm body next to me. Jim had moved further down my front, and I’d worked myself a little flatter, allowing Jim to put his head on my shoulder. The situation began to tug on my emotions. I had lost count of the number of times I’d dreamed of such a scenario, someone warm and soft to cuddle up against in a cosy room, something romantic on the telly, all lit by a flickering fire. My eyes began to water at how nice everything looked and felt. I was able to block out the fact that the only reason this was happening was because I’d paid someone to help fulfil the fantasy. It just felt so nice…right…perfect.
A bleeping noise shook me out of my thoughts. I looked up at the clock on the mantelpiece and saw my two hours of bliss were about to come to an end. The noise must have come from Jim’s watch. I made to get up.
“It’s okay, I can stay longer if you like,” Jim said in a quiet, almost sleepy voice.
“I’d love you to stay longer, but…a librarian doesn’t earn all that much, and…” I raised my arm to let Jim free.
Jim twisted around before I’d had a chance to wipe away the tears that had fallen earlier.
“It’s okay. I like it here. There’s no extra charge.” He lifted up on one elbow and gave me a quick peck on my lips. It felt wonderful. I put my arms back around him and managed to choke out through a quickly tightening throat, “Thanks, Jim.”
“Please, call me Mark. I feel safer, a bit more removed from my customers, if I don’t give them my real name. I like you, Simon, so I wanted you to know my real name.”
“Thanks, Mark. I think I like you, too,” I managed to get out through a throat that hadn’t grown any less tight.
At that moment both our stomachs began to rumble. Mark let out a quiet chuckle. I did, too.
“Would you like something to eat?” I asked him.
Mark nodded. “If we can bring it back in here—and finish off the film. I’ve seen it so many times, but it’s nice to watch it in such pleasant company.”
I smiled. “I often have my tea in front of the telly. There isn’t much point in setting out the dining table for just me.”
I didn’t have a dining room. Just a kitchen worktable with leaves that folded out to allow up to four people to sit round it. Not that I ever had that many guests.
We both got up and went into the kitchen to see w
hat I could cobble together from what lay in the far corners of the fridge.
“There’s a couple of chicken breasts, some tomatoes that are only fit for frying, and a bit of salad. Would these along with some pasta and a jar of pasta sauce do you?” I asked Mark.
“Great. Do you need a hand?”
“Thanks. If you could get the packet of pasta and the sauce from the pantry over there, that’d be a help.”
We soon began to get the meal together. We seemed to work pretty well as a team. Domestic harmony, Yeah right, Simon, I thought to myself, dream on!
I cut the chicken into strips; Mark said it would cook quicker that way. I wasn’t all that domesticated, I just knew enough to feed myself the basics. I didn’t see the point in going to a great deal of trouble, when I was the only one who would eat the end results. I made a bit more of an effort on the few occasions when Mary would come over, but on the whole, I just did for myself.
The meal was soon ready. We went back into the living room where I got out a couple of TV dining tables, setting them up in front of the sofa. After we both got settled, I switched the VCR back on. We ate in cosy silence, with occasional comments from one or other of us about the food or the movie.
We’d pushed away the tables from the sofa, and I had my arms back around Mark when the final scenes came on, the ones where Liat, the native Island girl, finds out from Nellie that Joe Cable, the man Liat loved, had been killed in action.
“No matter how many times I watch this film, this bit always makes me cry,” Mark said.
I agreed with him.
When the titles began to roll, I looked down at the tears on Mark’s face.
I don’t know where I got the courage, because I’d never done such a thing before, but I lightly kissed Mark’s eyes. He gave a contented sigh of pleasure.
I pressed rewind on the VCR and got up to turn on the lights. It was totally dark outside now. The extra light in the room seemed to dispel the cosy mood. I knew Mark had to go soon, so I thought it better I bring up the subject. He’d been good enough to stay longer than we’d agreed, and I didn’t want to impose on his generosity any further.
