Angel Box Set

Chapter 1-4

“Stay, have a beer,” one of the blokes suggested. Dean caught Jay’s stare and gave him a nod. No skin off his nose, and odd for Jay to seek his permission. Or was he merely hesitating?

Dean checked his watch, the four o’clock deadline long-gone. Smith had driven the Cooper out invoice stuffed into the glove compartment, thanks to Jay. Their overstay prompted Dean to nip out and bring back a carton of beer—this event more than any other encouraging the men to call quits for the day. They didn’t tend to allow alcohol on the premises, but the workforce all lived nearby and most walked in to save on costs, so they wouldn’t be driving. Dean treated them on occasion—more often with chips or cakes, but they’d earned a free drink for the extra hours this month.

Despite Dean’s signal to join them, Jay hesitated. Cries of, “Come on,” and “Sit” with a background of general jeering filled the air. One man moved along leaving a space. Jay at last sat when another man said, “We want the story of what calamity you saved the boss from this time.”

“If any of this gets back to my father, I’ll know who talked.” Though a joke, he didn’t want his father to know. Maybe he should remind them one day all this would be his, but Dean’s questionable sense kicked in. He didn’t want to sound threatening.

“As if we would, mate.” John, jovial as ever, winked. “Next thing, your dad will try to drag one of us into the office to learn the sodding paperwork, and we don’t want that.”

A vague chorus of agreement ensued. The same as Dean, these men all preferred manual labour. Jay tried to refuse the bottle thrust his way, the attempt futile. He lurched as someone slapped him on the back hard, almost losing the beer. Dean parted his lips, uncertain, took his own drink to his mouth, sipping. Jay sat bunched, braced, appeared ready to bounce off the seat. The wrong word or glance might make him leap. Dean’s irritation spring-boarded from his colleagues to his friend. To join in with a few blokes over a beer wouldn’t hurt him.

“How’s Louise?” one man inquired of John.

“The scan was fine. It’s a girl.”

“Another one? Thought sure it’d be a boy.”

John’s shoulders rose and fell. “A baby’s a baby.”

“Yeah, but don’t you, like, want a son?” Terence insisted on poking the subject. “If the third one’s another bloody girl, you’re liable to end up with a tribe of Amazons. You’ll be a minority, mate.”

Dean gritted his teeth. Some of his employees should hesitate before they opened their traps. Terence, though the oldest, could be a right prat. He and John were the only two with wives, and John’s wife struggled to carry children to term. John’s jaw tightened, his next words striking a sharp tone. “Long as it’s healthy, neither of us cares.”

“Here, here.” Dean tipped his bottle in a toast, a gesture most of the others duplicated. As the rich malted flavour burst over his tongue, Dean spotted Jay looking his way. Might be his imagination but Jay appeared to give him a barely-there nod. Approval?

“I can’t say as I’d do it, though,” Mark said, shaking his head. “I dunno. Family and all, I guess it’s fine. I can’t get my head around it, though. I’ve me some wild oats to sow.”

John laughed. “I sure as hell don’t know who you’re trying to kid, but there’s the sound of bells ringing. One—“ he leaned over for emphasis “—I have six years on you and I wanted to marry Louise and have kids with her. Two, you are never going to be old enough where it counts up here.” He tapped his temple. “And three—” he paused, peering at his smirking audience “—I don’t hear about you sowing too many wild grain products.”

Even Mark laughed at the good-natured baiting. He gestured to Jay. “Perhaps I should be like our boy here and change stride.”

The laughter trailed off on a dissipating wave, tinged with apparent embarrassment. The men toyed with their beer bottles, or drank, shifted where they sat. Mark, i***t, failed to notice.

“I mean, stands to reason if women find it easy to pick up a bloke, if you’re bent, it’s got to be easier for a guy to get laid. Takes all the hard work out of it.”

A remark lay on Dean’s tongue to say no doubt it depended on the man. Hard to imagine Jay lacked offers, but Dean had no clue whether Jay acted on any of them. As for being gay, where was the evidence? His friend sat dressed in worn jeans and a large baggy shirt at least two sizes too big for his frame. Sure, he wore his hair long, but some men might punch a person making a similar suggestion in the face, on principle if not homophobia. Who had the right to dictate another person’s appearance? The length of Jay’s hair didn’t translate to his being gay, and his clothing screamed of nothing except, perchance, isolation. Jay’s wardrobe screeched of a man who didn’t care, didn’t want people to stare, wished to go unnoticed. When did Jay ever mention going on a date? Never, likely for the same reasons Dean hoped Mark would shut up—he didn’t see it as anyone’s business. Still, a friend should know these things, ought to have some inkling.

“So, tell us—” Mark looped an arm around Jay’s neck “—where’s the best place to get laid these days?”

“I-I wouldn’t know.” Jay contemplated his bottle as if it might contain poison, doubtless scared to put the rim to his mouth now, sitting as he did under Mark’s scrutiny.

“Oh, come on. A pretty little thing like you.” Mark ran his fingers over Jay’s hair.

What the f**k? Dean narrowed his eyes, pressed his teeth together. A mask of anger tightened his features. Despite trying, he was unable to stop it happening, muscles at war in his face as he fought to conceal his emotions behind a developing scowl. Mark wasn’t entitled to lay a hand on Jay, and those greasy fingers had better not defile his hair.

Dean stopped short of rising, frozen to his seat by the knowledge of a growing growl. He washed away the sound with another swallow of beer. What was wrong with him? He needed to get a grip. Mark often acted like the biggest troll here, but none of the men meant anything by such fooling.

He took several steadying breaths, which failed to achieve anything, before Mark said, “You must have loads of offers.”

Jay shook his head, gaze engrossed by the grey concrete floor. Mark, scrutinising the men, took the offending hand from Jay’s hair, and held it out, bent at the wrist, fingertips to his chest—a gesture no one could construe as anything but effeminate. “Don’t tell me you’re not a great shag.”

“Mark,” John spoke a clear warning, but like always, the lights were on in an empty abode. Mark might be familiar with his way around an engine, but otherwise, he was often obtuse.

“I guess there’s one of us here knows.” Mark laughed—a full ribald, reverberating sound like the purr of a powerful engine. “Or at least he can tell us how you snog. I mean if it were a good kiss, it makes sense a good kisser would make a great shag, wouldn’t it? What? What?” Though all sat in silence, Mark didn’t take the hint. “Well?”

Dean blinked, realisation slowing his world until his blood ran slow, sluggish like old motor oil. Mark expected an answer. Dean almost barked out a laugh. Could the morning grow any weirder? The situation more surreal? To worsen matters, despite their discomfort, some of the other men now gawked at him, too. Notwithstanding the collective unease, and their apparent unhappiness with—even dislike of—Mark, curiosity shone through. Dean longed to tell them to go f**k themselves, though to do so broke employer and employee rules. He imagined his father hissing code of conduct if one of the men complained. Dean worked with these men, was in charge of them. Tackling this sudden though peculiar situation was no easy thing.

Jay awaited his reaction as much as they all did, but what could Dean do? His anger presented like a deplorable choice. How would his father cope with this?

“Maybe seven, maybe eight out of ten. I’ve had a lot worse.” He flashed his teeth, making his answer a joke…or so he hoped.

“Not a ten?” Mark sounded disappointed.

Dean tried to ignore Jay’s gaze, caustic like sulphuric acid across his face. He couldn’t pacify Jay and deal with whatever game Mark was playing. A dozen questions and as many scenarios sped through his mind none making sense. One possible explanation might be Mark’s hereto-unquestioned sexuality, but gay, straight, bigoted, dipstick, none of those excused Mark’s behaviour, and no way in any world would he let Mark within an inch of Jay and live. Jay deserved better.

“Ten’s are rare.” The words came out as clipped and lacking emotion as he intended. Dean waited for Mark to look over, held his stare as he tipped back the bottle and drained his beer. He hoped his eyes sent the message, Don’t you f*****g dare.

“Since when have you had a ten?” One of the men chuckled, an uneasy sound. At least some of his employees retained some sense. Dean let silence and his reputation speak. Mark and he still waged war across an ever-increasing cold space.

“Oh, well. Sorry, mate.” Mark nudged Jay with his shoulder. “It’s been a few years. Perhaps you’ll have to try again.” Mark swallowed from his bottle, his gaze bright. To Dean, the room grew warm again. Dean’s anger settled into rough idle, in part owing to the small silent prayer to hold his displeasure in check. He didn’t try to guess Jay’s emotions.

The circle of men all went back to a show of discomfort. A couple risked a glance, only for their regard to dart away. Mark sat with open loathing on his face. Mark—whom Dean had always suspected didn’t like him, the man’s agenda unclear. Dean would not, could not let Mark win. He offered the other man a closed-mouth smile, and said, “Maybe.”

Silence electrified the room, before—thank goodness—laughter sparked off. Mark glared, before shaking his head. More battery acid assaulted Dean’s throat. Took a lot for someone to intimidate him—he struggled with the idea Mark managed to make him feel unbalanced. His feelings he needed to set aside for another day. For now, the crown of Mark’s head held Dean’s gaze while the man studied the floor. Mark wasn’t such an i***t, though it might be his choice to act like one.

Murmurs broke up the drinking session. No one took a second beer. Jay set down his drink, not having touched it. “Got to be on my way.” He clutched at the common excuse circulating the room. “This i***t,” he gestured to Dean, “has kept me long enough.”

What about the dickhead beside him? No doubt, Jay would lay the blame of what transpired with Mark at Dean’s size twelves, too.

A few laughs ensued. Jay received a couple of pats on the back. The men all moved, muttering about cleaning up, getting home. As Jay shouldered his bag and twisted to face the front of the building, Dean said, “Use the back exit. I locked up.” Not knowing why, he followed Jay out to the tolerably clean alley. Once there, it crossed his mind to say sorry, for dragging Jay here on a Saturday, if not for Mark.

No. He ought to apologise for Mark, also.

He didn’t get a chance. Jay spun and swore; never having done so before, he made Dean back up.

“You s**t. You bastard. f*****g basssstard.” Jay kept his voice low, but the kick of his words, the venom fuelling his emotions came through.

Dean jerked back, skin tingling. The passageway appeared to contract, walls rushing in. Jay’s attention flicked to the interior of the garage, before settling on Dean’s face. He acted feline and furious, like a hissing, spitting cat, claws extended. Dean didn’t appreciate being the rodent but Jay tossed out words as though he were on the hunt through piles of rubbish.

“Do you always have to be so insensitive? Do you have to bring up the stupid sodding kiss every time? That kiss wasn’t even my fault. It was yours. But you’re going to keep making me pay.”

There came the eerie echo again, of Jay throwing an accusation Dean wanted to hurl right back. Dean hadn’t mentioned the kiss; the men had. If Jay wished it remained a secret, he should have considered before running his mouth off to his sister. Jay’s loose jaws ditched them into this. Dean should be the one complaining.

“Hey!” Dean took back his lost step, which meant letting go of the door. The entry clicked shut, cutting off the building, separating them from the men inside, but Jay didn’t give him a chance to clarify.

“I’m not at your disposal to drag your sorry arse out of s**t. No more. Crash your stupid computer, see how many friends you can call to help who will put up with your crap.”

Dean opened his mouth to reply, but the torrent never ceased. Every “I didn’t…But…I…That’s not…Listen…Just…Let me speak…” washed away on a river of complaint. When Dean gave up, Jay stomped around the alleyway before planting his feet, glaring into Dean’s face.

“I don’t know why I do it. I don’t know why I ever did. All April and I get out of you is s**t. I’ve suffered crap for the last three years all because you tried to cop a feel off my sister. You couldn’t ask her out and try to date her like any normal man. Oh no. You attempted an ambush.”

The muscles in Dean’s arms and shoulders bunched. Men backed off about now, but not Jay. He stared up from several inches away, no doubt aware he was safe. Dean wouldn’t hit Jay; he wouldn’t. He might break Jay’s jaw. Doing so would feel good. For an instant, striking Jay would feel f*****g wonderful, before Dean would feel lousy. Pick on someone your own size—his parents fed him the mantra from the moment they realised he would be tall for his age, let alone wide.

“Look.” Dean lowered his voice. “I need to explain what happened in there.”

Jay closed the distance, pushing, taking Dean by surprise, backing him up. The shock of Jay standing up to him, head tilted back, unrelenting…so much hair tumbling over his shoulders and down his back…The distraction shocked him. Dean shifted and as if the movement were a cue, Jay snarled.

“For your information, it wasn’t even much of a kiss. You give me eight out of ten. I give you five for audacity, three for effort, and one for technique. There was too much spit.”

Whaaat?

No way. They had shared a closed-mouth kiss, no spit. Dean was a good kisser, damn it! Women loved him for the way he kissed. Some men couldn’t be bothered, but Dean liked kissing. How dare Jay call him useless?

With a growl, Dean caught Jay by his arms and jerked them together, silencing Jay’s gasp with his lips. Dean used his bulk and his strength to lift Jay to the tips of his toes, angled his body, and pressed his tongue home.

This isn’t a good idea kicked his brain into gear a second late, by which time all his anger, frustration, every undeserved thing he believed ever said to him, as well as his confused emotions went into the kiss. His tongue plunged, licked, and swirled, his touch rough and urgent. Teeth clashed, both men winced. The underlying ripe stench of the alley faded under the sweet fragrance of apples. Jay’s shampoo.

Stop this! Dean failed to obey his own good advice, as Jay’s body loosened, grew pliant, yielded, mouth going lax, pulling Dean into soft, muted depths. A few seconds spun out of time as Dean explored, licked, drew his friend’s tongue into a suck, the urgent message of this terrible idea battling beneath the surface, inching under his skin, breaking through, crystallising.

Dean opened his eyes a moment before Jay opened his. The two friends stared from inches apart, eyes wide. Jay paled.

A headache spiked as Dean set Jay back on his feet, painfully aware the men might emerge from the garage any moment. Dean’s body grew heavy. His chest tightened. He became hollow, empty. He wanted to speak, knew of no explanation to give. Bombarded with questions and self-recriminations, unable to verbalise any of them—not knowing how to mend this broken shaft—Dean uttered the first thing to zoom into his mind. “Don’t ever say I don’t know how to kiss.”

Regret. Instant.

What was he doing? Bragging? This time, the leaking battery burned out his throat; a chemical flavour filled his mouth. Less anticipated was Jay’s reaction. An earthquake took place, Jay shaking in what might be disgust, rage, or both. Dean made ready for another rant, deserving it, even desiring it. He was unprepared for tears.

Jay wiped at his face, made a grab for his bag containing his laptop and other small pieces of computer equipment, which had slipped off his shoulder and now hung over one arm. Good thing the short strap saved it from hitting the ground. Jay pulled the bag around, sniffed, moved out of range, swallowing.

“Jay.” The word sounded rough as if, indeed, something corrosive had eaten into Dean’s throat.

Dean stepped forward, but Jay shook his head. When he swallowed again, throat sounding thick with misery, Dean took another step, a hand extended…too late.

Jay spun, and powered off.