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    Pluck and Play: With A Kick #5
    Pluck and Play: With A Kick #5
    Pluck and Play: With A Kick #5
    Ebook138 pages1 hour

    Pluck and Play: With A Kick #5

    By Clare London

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    About this ebook

    Everyone knows Curtis Wilson around the Soho business scene: a hard-working, budding young entrepreneur, who can get you supplies of whatever you need, and always with a joke and a laugh. Only Curtis knows that’s a purely public persona. Secretly, he’s still licking his wounds after being beaten up by his ex-lover, and he’s not about to let his guard down again.
    Handsome Riley Richmond was born to be a cowboy, on his father’s side at least. But after his parents’ deaths, he finds himself stranded this side of the Atlantic, an anachronism in the bustling capital, and without financial capital. His consolation is his music, albeit he’s not a very successful busker and he loses his only decent piano gig after standing up for Curtis against a homophobic bully.
    After that, they keep meeting, partly by accident, partly by Riley’s design. He’s smitten, and doesn’t mind letting Curtis know. Their music brings them together – Riley’s guitar playing and Curtis’ sharp, sexy poetry are a powerful combination. But Curtis still has some unfinished business with his ex-lover that he’s struggling to handle on his own. Riley intends to be the man Curtis calls on for help, whether he likes it or not. He’ll do whatever it takes to show Curtis that people can still be trusted to be honest and caring – even if it means walking them both into danger.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherClare London
    Release dateFeb 4, 2015
    ISBN9781310852312
    Pluck and Play: With A Kick #5
    Author

    Clare London

    Clare took the pen name London from the city where she lives, loves, and writes. A lone, brave female in a frenetic, testosterone-fuelled family home, she juggles her writing with the weekly wash, waiting for the far distant day when she can afford to give up her day job as an accountant. She’s written in many genres and across many settings, with novels and short stories published both online and in print. She says she likes variety in her writing while friends say she’s just fickle, but as long as both theories spawn good fiction, she’s happy. Most of her work features male/male romance and drama with a healthy serving of physical passion, as she enjoys both reading and writing about strong, sympathetic and sexy characters.Clare currently has several novels sulking at that tricky chapter 3 stage and plenty of other projects in mind . . . she just has to find out where she left them in that frenetic, testosterone-fuelled family home.All the details and free fiction are available at her website. Visit her today and say hello!Join up for her newsletter at http://bit.ly/2WpHlyK and receive a free short story!Clare also writes as Stella Shaw and launched her Love at the Haven series of rent boy romances in 2021.Website + blog: http://www.clarelondon.com / stellashawauthor.comFacebook: https://www.facebook.com/clarelondonTwitter: https://twitter.com/clare_londonGoodreads: http://bit.ly/2lNSfC2Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/author/clarelondonBookbub: https://www.bookbub.com/profile/clare-londonInstagram: https://www.instagram.com/clarelondon11/Quids&Quills: http://www.quidsandquills.com (accountancy for UK authors)

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      Book preview

      Pluck and Play - Clare London

      PLUCK AND PLAY

      CLARE LONDON

      Everyone knows Curtis Wilson around the Soho business scene: a hard-working, budding young entrepreneur, who can get you supplies of whatever you need, and always with a joke and a laugh. Only Curtis knows that’s a purely public persona. Secretly, he’s still licking his wounds after being beaten up by his ex-lover, and he’s not about to let his guard down again.

      Handsome Riley Richmond was born to be a cowboy, on his father’s side at least. But after his parents’ deaths, he finds himself stranded this side of the Atlantic, an anachronism in the bustling capital, and without financial capital. His consolation is his music, albeit he’s not a very successful busker and he loses his only decent piano gig after standing up for Curtis against a homophobic bully.

      After that, they keep meeting, partly by accident, partly by Riley’s design. He’s smitten, and doesn’t mind letting Curtis know. Their music brings them together – Riley’s guitar playing and Curtis’ sharp, sexy poetry are a powerful combination. But Curtis still has some unfinished business with his ex-lover that he’s struggling to handle on his own. Riley intends to be the man Curtis calls on for help, whether he likes it or not. He’ll do whatever it takes to show Curtis that people can still be trusted to be honest and caring – even if it means walking them both into danger.

      Copyright © 2015 Clare London

      Smashwords Edition

      All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

      This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

      DEDICATION

      To Elin, with love

      WITH A KICK READING ORDER:

      #1 A Twist and Two Balls

      #2 Hissed as a Newt (by Sue Brown)

      #3 Slap and Tickle

      #4 Bells and Balls (by Sue Brown)

      #5 Pluck and Play

      #6 Nice and Snow

      #7 Smack Happy

      #8 Double Scoop

      #9 Top and Tails

      COLLECTIONS also in Audio:

      Collection No 1 (#1, #3, #6, #7)

      Collection No 2 (#5, #8)

      INDEX

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CHAPTER FIVE

      CHAPTER SIX

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      CHAPTER NINE

      CHAPTER TEN

      CHAPTER ELEVEN

      CHAPTER TWELVE

      MORE FROM CLARE LONDON

      ABOUT CLARE LONDON

      CHAPTER ONE

      Curtis just wanted everyone to get the hell out of his way. The wind was chilling this morning, cutting his skin with icy needles even through his second-hand padded jacket. It wasn’t the weather for hanging around bloody chatting, or wandering aimlessly arm in arm in a zig-zag up the middle of the street. Didn’t they realise other people had things to do, places to go? With a rueful grin, he hitched his packed messenger bag further up on his shoulder and braced his knee against the wall of the nearby dry cleaner’s shop grocer’s, while he rearranged the outsized pile of boxes he was carrying down the road from where he’d parked his van. He wasn’t really built for heavy lifting: even at twenty two, he’d never grown over five foot eight or out from a thirty four inch chest size. But he was wiry and stronger than he looked. And he was on a mission to get all this stuff delivered so he could take a decent break for lunch.

      Curtis’ delivery schedule that morning included a couple of boxes to the Chinese grocer’s on Gerrard Street, then a delivery of part-frozen prawns to the kitchen of the West London Hotel at Leicester Square. At ten o’clock he was due to collect the coffee machine from the comedy club and take it for repair. Then he had a spare hour–hopefully–when he’d promised himself a large sausage sandwich from the German café and an ice cream at With A Kick. He’d become a real fan of the shop ever since his flatmate Phiz introduced him to it. He’d laughed out loud at the bloody stupid names they had for the ice cream dishes, but after he tasted Phiz’s favourite Slap and Tickle–with chocolate ice cream and brandy–he only opened his mouth for eating. He readily admitted they were fabulous recipes. And the shop itself was a bizarre little corner of Soho. In any visit, he might see tourists, Turkish families ranging through three generations, old age pensioners, guys wearing leather collars under their zipped jackets, men in clown costume, and once he’d even stumbled into what looked like a party for guys built like rugby players. Or maybe they really were rugby players.

      And there was always plenty of smiling at With A Kick. Like Curtis said, bizarre. Curtis tried to keep pretty cheerful, but sometimes he was just too fucking busy, even if and when he had things to smile about. But if it was gonna happen, it’d probably be around that amazing shop.

      Things had gone well so far on his daily round. The grocer’s delivery was quick, leaving him time to collect the coffee machine earlier than expected. He’d have been more or less in time for the hotel’s prawns, but then a bus broke down in the middle of Charing Cross Road, and Curtis’ van got stuck in the traffic. When he finally drove his van up the small service road around the back of the hotel, he could see a handful of kitchen staff standing in the back yard. Maybe they were just outside having a ciggie, rather than waiting for a few boxes of prawns to arrive. When the largest man among them spun around to glare at Curtis’ approach, Curtis knew the ciggie theory was blown to hell.

      Got here as soon as I could, he called as he scrambled out of the van. He swung open the back doors of the van, making lots of noise about it.

      Told the boss you weren’t reliable, the big man said. It was a definite sneer. He sauntered across the yard, dressed in the white kitchen jacket and check trousers that announced he was a chef, swaggering with the weight of his own importance. Curtis’ description of the man would have been far less complimentary: the chef was a hulking great lump of homophobic lard, and he and Curtis always ended up trading insults. One day, Curtis was gonna wallop him, even though he was three times Curtis’ size. Brave talk? Oh yeah. Curtis was afraid the chef would just bounce like a punch ball, and swing right back.

      I’m usually here on time, Curtis said, trying to keep the anger out of his voice. So are you gonna give me a hand with the boxes?

      You’re the delivery boy. The chef shrugged, and leant against the side of the van. He gave a cold, ugly grin as Curtis lugged the first box into his arms. That’s what you’re fucking paid for.

      And you’re paid for resting your fat arse on my van? Curtis cursed his big mouth the minute the words were out.

      The chef straightened, his face red. This close to Curtis, he loomed over him. You wanna make something of it, you won’t be delivering here again, kid.

      You didn’t sign the contract, you don’t call the shots, mate–

      "I mean, mate, the chef broke in, his voice a menacing rasp yet loud enough to be heard by everyone else. Broken fingers aren’t fit to lift your fucking fag dick, let alone a box of prawns."

      The fury and hurt rose like a wave of scarlet heat through Curtis’ body. Not that he wasn’t used to his fair share of homophobic abuse, but things had definitely improved since he’d built up a network around Soho and the Square. And it wasn’t like he minced about in sequinned Dr Martens. It really was only morons like this who still couldn’t get their thick head around their own prejudice. He took a step forward, planning a suitably crisp reply to the fat git’s total absence of human civility, let alone any nod to political correctness. The chef glared back and balled his fists. So that’s how it goes. The sniping was over. Curtis took a deep breath and wondered who would put the bits of him back in the van and get him home after the inevitable pummelling.

      A punch came out of nowhere, at least that was how it seemed. The one thing Curtis knew was that neither he nor the fat git had thrown it. Curtis stared, astounded, as a fist landed on the chef’s jaw. It was like a movie: he watched each step like it was in slow motion. The fist hit the nose–the sound of slapped flesh and crunched bone followed a fraction afterwards–then the chef’s head twisted sharply back and to the side. His eyes were full of angry shock and his mouth gaped wide, his cheek crushed flat on the side of the blow. Curtis even imagined the soundtrack swelling into a cymbal crash as the man’s knees buckled and he slumped back against the side of the van. Slowly, he slid down to the ground.

      Sonofabitch! came a man’s curse. Curtis whirled to see a stranger grimacing and cradling his right wrist in his left hand. He caught Curtis’ gaze and grinned ruefully. Haven’t hit a guy for a long time, I’m obviously outta practice. He had an American accent, with a very slight southern drawl.

      Curtis stared at him. What the fuck d’you think you’re doing?

      The man did a double-take. "What d’you think I’m doing? He nodded sharply at the chef, currently wheezing against the passenger door. Blood dripped into his hand, which he cradled at his nose, and dribbled on down his white uniform. Shutting up that sewer-mouthed sonofabitch, that’s what."

      Curtis did a quick scope out of the area. The other staff had rather miraculously vanished at the first sign of trouble, though Curtis suspected that if the chef had been less of a turd, they might have stayed around to help out. Instead, he was pretty sure they thought the pig deserved everything he got. But whether that meant being beaten up by some weird Transatlantic stranger…

      Curtis peered back at the stranger. He didn’t

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