Torrid Teasers Volume 11

by Fiona Glass

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  Whiskey Creek Press

  www.whiskeycreekpress.com

  Copyright ©2006 by WHISKEY CREEK PRESS

  * * *

  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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  TORRID TEASERS

  VOLUME 11:

  TO THE RESCUE & CROSSED WIRES

  by

  Fiona Glass

  WHISKEY CREEK PRESS

  www.whiskeycreekpress.com

  Published by

  WHISKEY CREEK PRESS

  Whiskey Creek Press

  PO Box 51052

  Casper, WY 82605-1052

  www.whiskeycreekpress.com

  Copyright ©

  2006 by Fiona Glass

  Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

  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 permission in writing from the publisher.

  ISBN 1-59374-641-5

  Credits

  Cover Artist: Jinger Heaston

  Editor: Louise Bohmer

  Printed in the United States of America

  TO THE RESCUE

  by

  Fiona Glass

  It was just after one in the morning when the phone rang, and Jim was tucked up in bed with the duvet round his ears. It was freezing in the bedroom. When the Helm Wind roared down from the summit of Bryn Fell, there was no escape, and draughts squeezed through the tiniest gap, rattling the windows and flapping the rugs on the floor. Tonight it was snowing as well, and the wind bore the bite of Siberia in its teeth. A night for staying indoors, wrapped in blankets and an extra pair of socks, next to the man he loved.

  Something told him it wasn't to be—that something being John Atkinson's voice booming at him down the wires. “Get your kit on, Jim. We've got a call."

  Jim rubbed a little more sleep from his eyes and held the receiver away from his ear. “Tonight? Christ, John, it's snowing a fucking blizzard out there. Who in their right minds would be out in this?"

  John barked a laugh. “You tell me. Couple of city guys from Manchester, apparently. Their wives have been on the phone, in varying states of hysteria, to say they're missing. Set off this morning to climb Bryn Fell and haven't been heard of since."

  "Christ. Helicopter's no good, I take it?"

  "Can't fly in this weather, mate. It's us and the dogs or nothing."

  "Okay, I'm on my way.” He returned the receiver to the cradle, already shoving the duvet aside to clamber out of bed. Bare feet hit the bare wooden planks of the floor and he winced and stifled a squawk, but judging by the protesting grumble from the other half of the bed, Simon was already awake.

  "Sorry, love, got to go. There's two men missing on Bryn Fell."

  "Rather you than me,” Simon mumbled, blinking against the glare of the light Jim had just switched on. “What time is it?"

  "After one. Go back to sleep.” He leant across the bed to kiss his lover on one bristly cheek. “I'll get dressed in the hall—less of a disturbance for you.” Simon was the local vet and had been called out to the remoter farms seven times in the previous three nights, to animals suffering in the sudden cold. He needed his sleep.

  "Mmm. Thanks."

  "See you in the morning. I'll call if there's any problems.” He'd never get a mobile signal up in the hills, but the crew had a satellite phone to keep in touch with base and call out the army if things got really bad. The team members themselves weren't supposed to use it but often did; wives and partners tended to panic if their loved ones disappeared into the hills for hours without leaving word.

  Shucking on three layers of clothing against the cold, he grabbed his boots and waterproofs and threw them into the car. Like most of the Mountain Rescue, he drove a four-by-four. In this wilderness terrain, it was pointless charging to someone's aid, only to get stuck in the nearest snowdrift or bog.

  Outside, the conditions were even worse than he'd feared. The snow was being driven in at an angle of thirty degrees, belting against the windscreen faster than the wipers could keep it clear. The roads were already covered a couple of feet deep and the surface was treacherous. What looked like a smooth white track could mask hidden potholes, verges and banks. In deference to the conditions, he kept the Land Rover to a steady twenty-five through the village to the car park of the Red Boar, which was the crew's prearranged meeting place and the closest they could get to Bryn Fell by road.

  Jim slowed the Land Rover to a stop and jumped out into the snow, hurrying to fetch his pack from the trunk. He kept it there permanently with all the essentials he would need—compass, lamp, waterproof maps, Kendal Mint Cake, water in a flask, ice axes and hammers and shovels and a good stout stick. He could already see six shrouded figures—John and Mick and Sly Bob and the rest—standing in the headlights of a farm van, surrounded by the lolloping forms of the dogs. He was the last to arrive.

  "Jim! Over here,” John called, beckoning him across.

  "What's the latest?"

  "We got lucky. They were in the gift shop buying a guide book earlier. Mick overheard them discussing their route."

  Mick was a grizzled local who'd lived in the village all his life. He might look old but he was the fittest of them all, and regularly took part in the Great Fell Run, which he'd won three times in the last six years. “Yeah,” he said. “They were looking it up in Wainwright. Said they were going to try the Devil's Gully. If they've got stuck up there in this lot, it's hardly surprising they're not back down."

  "Christ.” Even inside his special breathable fabric layers, Jim shivered. The Devil's Gully was notorious; one of the most demanding scrambles on the whole fell. A wild tumble of massive boulders at the foot of a dizzying ravine that snaked upwards between two great spurs of rock. It was not for the fainthearted, and anyone trying it in winter was a candidate for the funny farm.

  There was a map of the area spread across the farm truck's bonnet and various heads bent over it, plotting their route. Jim joined them, pouring over the frantic squiggles for himself. The fell was a whale-back when seen from its milder, southern side but here on the west, it reared up in rugged cliffs and scarps, divided here and there by the plumes of waterfalls and with very few paths. It was vicious country indeed, and they were mad to attempt it in this. Brushing away the snow that was already starting to dust the map, he looked instead to the south, finger tracing a route that led away from where they stood, around the mountain's flank.

  "What are you looking over there for, Jim?” Sly Bob asked. “The Gully's on this side of the fell."

  "Yeah, I know, but tackling it in a blizzard would be suicide. I was thinking. Isn't there a mountain hut at Saddle Col? That's only a mile or so from the top of the Gully, and if they saw the weather closing in, they could have made for that."

  "Aye, it's mentioned in Wainwright,” put in Mick.

  John, who was team leader, thought for a while, before nodding his agreement. “You're right. If we go up Devil's Gully, we'll risk our own lives. We'll make for the hut and hope for the best. If they're not there, we'll have to think again. Okay,
people, kit up and call the dogs."

  After much slamming of car doors and yelling, they were off, plodding along a farm track towards the south with the dogs milling round their legs. The dark bulk of Bryn Fell loomed over them, looking impossibly high. The Red Boar was at nearly eighteen hundred feet which gave them a head start, but there were another thousand to go before they would even be in sight of the hut. Bryn Fell wasn't one of the highest mountains in England for nothing.

  In the car park, they'd been sheltered by the trees, but out here on the open slopes, the wind rushed down, nearly knocking them from their feet with its force. Jim felt that the only thing holding him up at times was the weight of snow on his boots, as he bent double into the gale. At least the way was less steep, tackling the fell from this side; although plodding through the three foot drifts was exhausting work. Apart from the occasional muttered check on direction or word of encouragement to the dogs, the team remained quiet, heads down and every scrap of energy saved for the climb. And it was cold. After half a mile, Jim could no longer feel his toes, and that was inside four different pairs of socks. As for his face, that felt as though it had been shot-blasted clean. He'd be surprised if there was any skin left by the time he got back home.

  The blizzard intensified, and soon he could see nothing beyond the square foot his torch beam illuminated in front of his feet. Trees, hedges, paths, the occasional lighted window in the valley below—all had disappeared in a whirling curtain of white. Even the shoulder of Bryn Fell had vanished into the shroud, and they might have been trekking in Alaska for all he could see. They were making progress, though, if the GPS readings they stopped every few hundred yards to make were right. Sure enough, after another twenty minutes of slog, the ground began to level out and they stumbled over the lip of Saddle Col.

  Even here, they had to watch their step. A small tarn occupied most of the bottom of the Col and ice lurked beneath the snow; the dogs could roam at will but the men kept well to the side, close to the rocky wall. They stumbled amongst a jumble of fallen boulders until Jim, peering ahead through the whirling feathers of snow, tapped John on the arm and pointed to what he thought he could see.

  "Over there, at the head of the tarn. Isn't that a light?” As he spoke, the wind shifted, the snow parted like the Red Sea at Moses’ behest, and he could quite clearly see a small yellow square shining against the dark bulk of the fell.

  "Thank Christ,” John said, pausing and wiping at the snow frosting his face. “Looks like they had the sense to make for the hut. At least they'll have water and tinned food and blankets to keep ‘em going. Better go and see if they need help, but there's no need for us all to march over there. Jim, you come with me. The rest of you can get off home."

  There was a chorus of mumbled thanks and most of the team turned tail, taking all but one of the dogs with them. Jim ploughed on, planting his feet in John's boot prints as they headed towards the light. The square began to appear more often through the snow, growing in size as they approached, from matchbox to life size. Finally they were standing right outside, and John bent to take a look. “Don't want to rouse them if they're safely asleep,” he said, wiping a sleeve across the pane to clear a film of frost. He peered through the subsequent hole, turned his head to the left, then to the right, then leaped backwards with a gasp as though the window had been wired to the mains.

  "Bloody hell,” he said, his face flushing an improbable shade of red. “You'd better deal with this, Jim. More your sort of thing."

  Puzzled, Jim squinted through the window in his turn. At first, he could see nothing out of place in the hut's Spartan interior. The light they could see came from a hurricane lamp, swinging from a nail just inside the door, and the embers of a fire that glowed on the hearth. A plank table still bore the remnants of somebody's meal and two wooden chairs were pushed to one side. The far wall was lined with wooden bed platforms, and two of them showed signs of use, which was just what Jim had expected to see. So what was getting John's knickers in such a twist? His breath had steamed over the window again and he wiped it away with an impatient hand, then stared again.

  He was beginning to think the cold had warped John's brain until a movement caught his eye. It came from the nearer of the two occupied bunks—presumably one of the two ‘missing’ men turning over in his sleep. But he found it hard to make sense of what his eyes were telling his brain, because there seemed to be two heads on the pillow, and double the usual number of arms and legs, and far too many bumps and hollows under the blanket to be made by just one man. Jim's brain slowly caught up with his eyes. “Oh."

  Turning, he found John had moved some distance away, still scarlet, and with the sinews standing proud and corded on his neck.

  "You okay?” Jim said.

  "I will be,” John replied, in tones clipped enough to suggest his teeth were clenched. “Just keep me away from those ... bastards long enough and I'll calm down."

  Jim was surprised. He'd known John for years and hadn't had him down as a bigot. Surely the sight of two men sharing a bed was nothing these days, compared to the orgies shown most nights on the telly? Besides, they might just be sharing body heat. It was bloody cold tonight and there was no fire in the hut ... A second glance through the window dispelled that myth, as one decidedly male body clambered on top of the second, and two bearded faces began to kiss.

  Jim blushed and backed away.

  "Seen enough yet?” John said, the sarcasm etching the words on the wind. “Or would you like to go and join in the fun?"

  "What the fuck are you talking about? Look, I know homosexuality isn't everybody's cup of tea but there's no need to be like..."

  "There's every need when my entire rescue squad's been dragged up here in the worst weather for a decade and all for nothing. Pair of bloody fools. Couldn't they have got a hotel room in Penrith for the night? It costs I don't know how many thousand quid to call us all out—not to mention the human cost in lost sleep and interrupted lives.” John's voice was as quiet as the whistling wind allowed, but nonetheless forceful for that, and Jim knew he had a point.

  "They may not have planned it deliberately. They can't have known it was going to snow this much—it caught us by surprise and we live here."

  John snorted. “They've been forecasting snow of some sort for days. It doesn't take a genius to work out that you're likely to get caught if you go off stumbling round Bryn Fell in those kinds of conditions."

  "Guess you're right,” Jim said with a sigh. “Okay, I'd best go in and read ‘em the riot act. What d'you want me to say? Are we going to press charges for wasting our time?"

  John took a deep breath and released it in a puff of steam. “No. That's a bit silly, isn't it? We'll leave them be. I sure as hell don't want to walk in there while they're doing ... whatever it is they're doing—and I bet you don't either."

  A flash of naked leg caught Jim's eye through the window—tanned, lightly haired, with creases behind the knee. He felt his own breath hitch. “Er. Now you come to mention it, not really, no.” The leg was followed by a long lean back as one of the guys knelt up, and he had to look away as his cock began to fill. Imagine if it was Simon doing that to me. Imagine Simon straddling my hips, holding my shoulders down and entering me from behind. Imagine the thrusts and the sweat and the body hair brushing my skin, and Simon's teeth nipping the back of my neck. Imagine the smell of soap and last night's beer, and the blunt force of Simon's cock pushing its way within ... He drew a deep, shuddering breath and slammed his mind's eye shut.

  John was staring at him as if he could read the lascivious thoughts for himself. “Then let's head for home. I'll phone the wives when we're back down and let them know their husbands are safe. Other than that, they can bloody well find their own way out of the mess.” He snapped his fingers to the last remaining dog that was sniffing with interest round a snow-covered pile of logs. “C'mon, Mutt. Time to go home."

  The dog pricked up its ears and bounded off down the homeward
path, and Jim knew just how it felt, although his own progress was slower. Climbing a three thousand foot peak in a blizzard at the dead of night had taken its toll and they still had a long walk home. The return journey was marginally less terrible than the one out. The wind had at least dropped so the snow fell vertically rather than horizontally, and they no longer had to battle their way along. Even so, he was glad both he and John knew the mountain as well as they did, since one wrong turn could have led them over the edge of a cliff.

  Even with pauses for coffee and Kendal Mint Cake to bolster their flagging legs, they were stumbling by the time they got back to the cars. John loaded Mutt into the back of his van and crept out of the car park at a walking pace. Jim slung his pack, hauled off his top three layers of clothes and changed into ordinary boots before following suit. The surface was treacherous, but less so if he kept to a steady twenty-five and didn't do anything unexpected with the steering and brakes. He made it back through the village in one piece and was soon clattering up the stairs for a bath and a change of clothes.

  Simon met him on the landing, looking tousled and sleepy-eyed. “I'm glad you're back,” he said, rubbing one hand over his face. “I was beginning to think you'd got lost in the snow. Did you find them?"

  "Yeah."

  "Oh?"

  "John's not sure they were actually missing. We found them in the mountain hut on Saddle Col. In a bunk. Together. And they weren't asleep. John's not very pleased."

  "Christ, I'm not surprised. You mean they went all the way up there in a snowstorm to have a dirty weekend?"

  "It certainly looked that way from where I was standing. And John's got the job of phoning their wives when he gets home, the poor sod. Can't say I envy him. I'm off for a bath. I'm frozen through and filthy."

  "Just the way I like you,” Simon said with a leer. He peeled off the old sweatshirt he'd been sleeping in and began to tug at Jim's various buttons and zips. “I'll come and scrub your back."