plik

ERMANENTLY

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…I haven’t been to any of the bars since I got out of hospital last

time. So when I woke up this morning, hard-on the size of a Chieftain
tank, I decided tonight’s the night. And then I had a bloody good
wank, remembering the last time I went clubbing.

It was just before we got shipped out to Afghanistan. Weird now,

thinking of it. Like I was a different person then. S’pose I was, really.

I was a fair bit taller, for one thing.
Taller than the bloke I hooked up with that night, anyhow. Pretty

little thing, he was. Too pretty for me. I mean, come on. I haven’t got
hang-ups, but I know what I look like, right? Nice body; shame about
the face. ’Course, these days that first bit’s only two-thirds right. So
when he came dancing up to me, I didn’t take a lot of notice. Thought
he’d be moving on to someone behind me any minute.

Okay, that’s a lie. I took notice, all right. He was fucking gorgeous,

wasn’t he? Cheekbones so sharp you could cut yourself and pouty red
lips that looked like they’d already gone ten rounds with some lucky
bastard’s cock before he even got here. Soft brown hair and eyes to
match. I could feel my jeans getting tighter just watching him wiggle
those cute little hips to the Scissor Sisters.

Then the music changed, and it was something slow. Can’t

remember what. And he just looked up at me. Didn’t say anything.
Just looked and held out a hand.

To me.
So I took it—I mean fuck, I’m not stupid. And we danced together,

pressed up against each other, our cocks rubbing together through our
clothes and his hands in the back pockets of my jeans as he dropped
whisky-scented kisses on my neck. Every time I hear “The Time of
My Life” or have a glass of Scotch now I think of him…

PERMANENTLY

LEGLESS

J. L. MERROW

MBER

UILL

RESS

LLC

http://www.AmberQuill.com

ERMANENTLY

EGLESS

MBER

UILL

RESS

OOK

This book is a work of fiction.

All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the

author’s imagination, or have been used fictitiously.

Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales,

or events is entirely coincidental.

Amber Quill Press, LLC

http://www.AmberQuill.com

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.

ISBN 978-1-61124-239-3

PUBLISHED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

PERMANENTLY LEGLESS

PERMANENTLY LEGLESS

“You coming down the pub tonight?” Nathan asks as he puts

down his pint, hitting the beer mat dead centre without even
looking.

His eyes are glued to the Saturday lunchtime footie on the telly

in the corner, though why anyone would want to watch Stoke City
hang  on  grimly  to  a  one-nil  lead  for  eighty-seven  mind-numbing
minutes  is  beyond  me.  He’s  a  good  mate,  though,  Nathan.  Solid.
Character-wise,  I  mean,  although  the  poor  sod  does  act  like  he’s
got  a  fair  bit  of  bone  between  the  ears,  too,  sometimes.  Straight,
but it’s not like he can help it so I try not to hold it against him.

So to speak.
“We’re at the pub now, Nate,” I remind him.
“So?” he asks, like that’s got nothing at all to do with the price

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of fish.

“So,” I tell him patiently, “maybe I want a night off once in a

while. Don’t want people thinking I’m permanently legless, do I?”

“Nah, s’pose not,” he mutters, still watching the most boring

game of football ever played, let alone televised. Then it hits him
and he spills his pint, laughing. “You wanker!”

“Takes one to know one, Nate,” I tell him. “Listen, I’ll see you

around,  all  right?”  I  wheel  my  chair  out  around  the  table  and
through  the  pub,  shouting,  “Coming  through!”  to  wake  up  a  few
other buggers who’ve only got eyes for the telly and get them out
of  my  way.  I  give  Cheryl  at  the  bar  a  wave,  and  she  blows  me  a
kiss with her man-eater red lips, Lycra sleeves straining round her
biceps as she pulls another pint.

I’d have stayed a bit longer, but I need a piss, and there’s no

way I’m getting this chair through two sets of doors to get to the
Gents. And anyway, that football match really was bad.
Premiership, my shrapnel-scarred arse.

* * *

There’s a reason I’m not going down the pub tonight, and it’s

got  me  whistling  as  I  peer  into  the  bathroom  mirror  and  try  to
decide if I’d look better with or without the two-day stubble. The
gay  scene  ’round  here  isn’t  up  to  much,  this  being  Hertfordshire
and not bloody San Francisco, but such as it is, I’ve been missing
it. I haven’t been to any of the bars since I got out of hospital last
time.  So  when  I  woke  up  this  morning,  hard-on  the  size  of  a
Chieftain  tank,  I  decided  tonight’s  the  night.  And  then  I  had  a
bloody good wank, remembering the last time I went clubbing.

It was just before we got shipped out to Afghanistan. Weird

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now, thinking of it. Like I was a different person then. S’pose I
was, really.

I was a fair bit taller, for one thing.
Taller than the bloke I hooked up with that night, anyhow.

Pretty little thing, he was. Too pretty for me. I mean, come on. I
haven’t got hang-ups, but I know what I look like, right? Nice
body; shame about the face. ’Course, these days that first bit’s only
two-thirds right. So when he came dancing up to me, I didn’t take
a lot of notice. Thought he’d be moving on to someone behind me
any minute.

Okay, that’s a lie. I took notice, all right. He was fucking

gorgeous, wasn’t he? Cheekbones so sharp you could cut yourself
and pouty red lips that looked like they’d already gone ten rounds
with some lucky bastard’s cock before he even got here. Soft
brown hair and eyes to match. I could feel my jeans getting tighter
just watching him wiggle those cute little hips to the Scissor
Sisters.

Then the music changed, and it was something slow. Can’t

remember what. And he just looked up at me. Didn’t say anything.
Just looked and held out a hand.

To me.
So I took it—I mean fuck, I’m not stupid. And we danced

together, pressed up against each other, our cocks rubbing together
through our clothes and his hands in the back pockets of my jeans
as he dropped whisky-scented kisses on my neck. Every time I
hear “The Time of My Life” or have a glass of Scotch now I think
of him.

Then the music changed once more, and he looked at me again

and licked those full lips of his, and smiled. And I let him lead me
to the Gents and I fucked him in the stall, all with barely a word

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spoken. God, he was gorgeous.

He surprised me afterward. “You’re a squaddie, aren’t you?”

he asked, as I straightened myself up.

“What, did someone tattoo my name, rank and number on my

cock when I wasn’t looking?”

He smiled. “No, it’s just—something in the way you move, I

think.  Confidence.  The  way  you  look  at  people,  too,  like  you’re
sizing  them  up.”  He  looked  down  then,  his  hair  falling  over  his
eyes  like  loose  silk.  “My  dad  was  army.  My  sister,  too.  Think  I
was a bit of a disappointment.”

Well, that explained what he was doing with me. On top of the

alcohol, of course. I might not have yet reached thirty back then,
but I could easily have passed for ten years older. At least, so my
mates always used to tell me. Tossers.

We carried on talking afterward. I’ve heard it’s all arse over tit

with girls—euphemistically speaking, unless you get lucky and get
a real goer—and they expect you to do the talking first, fucking
second. Get the important stuff out of the way first; that’s what I
always say.

I bought him a beer, and he did the looking-through-his-hair

thing and asked if I wanted to see him again.

I felt a bit bad about having to let him down. “Sorry, mate, I’m

off to the arse-end of the world in three days. Got to get to base,
get packed up.”

“Afghanistan? On duty?”
I nodded. “Six months tour.”
“Give me your phone,” he said, holding out his hand.
“What?”
“Give me your phone. I’ll put my number in, and you can call

me when you get back.”

PERMANENTLY LEGLESS

So I handed him my phone and let him put his number in.

Seemed  a  shame  not  to,  when  he  was  so  sweet  and  enthusiastic
about it all. I knew even then I wouldn’t call him. Better to keep
the  memory  than  ruin  it  with  an  awkward  rejection  from  a  bloke
who can’t even remember you and wishes he didn’t have reason to
try. Let’s  face  it,  how  many  blokes  would he  have  fucked by the
time  I  came  back?  Even  if  you  just  look  at  Friday  and  Saturday
nights,  and  maybe  the  occasional  mid-weeker,  that’d  be—  Well,
let’s just say that sometimes I’m glad I’m not much cop at math.

Never got round to deleting his number, though. I kind of liked

finding it on my phone when I was looking someone up. Brought
back memories, it did.

Back in my bed, I came hard, just thinking about the way he’d

looked with my cock up his arse and my hand on his prick, and
though it wasn’t as bloody fantastic as the real thing, it was pretty
damn good.

* * *

So anyway, this evening I put on a decent shirt and get a taxi

out to Fudge.

Yeah, Fudge. Yeah, I know. I know, all right? What can I say?

Just because you’re gay, it doesn’t guarantee a sophisticated sense
of  humor.  Anyway,  the  place  itself  is  decent  enough.  You  get  all
sorts  there,  of  course.  It’s  the  only  proper  gay  nightclub  in  the
county.  A  lot  of  people  head  to  London,  but  I  never  liked  that
scene. Too impersonal. Now, of course, it’s just a bugger  getting
down to the Underground in a wheelchair.

Fudge is small, but it’s nice enough. There’s a queue at the

door, but what do you know? Cripples get preferential treatment. I

PERMANENTLY LEGLESS

even  get  a  butch  bouncer  offering  to  wheel  me  in,  but  he’s  not
really my type, so I tell him no thanks. I roll myself up the ramp,
wondering if it was always there and I just never noticed it when I
had legs, or  whether they put it there special after I rang ahead to
check they’d got one. I hate having to do that, but there’s nothing
that  pisses  me  off  more  than  getting  to  a  place  and  being  faced
with  a  bunch  of  steps  and  a  couple  of  six-foot  bouncers  who  tell
you  they  can’t  lift  you  in  because  Health  and  Safety  would  have
their arses if one of them broke a nail.

Anyway, ramp or no bloody ramp, it’s good to be back. There

was a while where I wondered if I’d ever get here again. Lying in
hospital,  waiting  for  the  doctors  to  stick  in  the  next  shot  of
morphine—and before that, just after the bomb went off. It didn’t
hurt  straight  away.  You  get  this  rush  of  fuck-knows-what  that
keeps you breathing and keeps you calm, and you just look at the
mass  of  blood  and  Pedigree  Chum  that  used  to  be  your  legs  and
you think, Right. So this is it.

Except it wasn’t—got my mate Harry to thank for that. Fixed

me up with a couple of tourniquets and radioed for help before he
even thought of turning green and puking his guts up. Harry’s still
out there. Signed up for another tour of duty straight after the first
one ended. I’m still not sure if I pity him or envy him.

The club looks—different. Must be the angle or something.

Everything looks  weird  when  you’re  sitting down. The  same, but
different,  you  know?  Like  suddenly  you  can  see  inside  it,  where
before  you  only  looked  at  the  surface.  Looks  a  bit  tackier  than  I
remember it, but I expect that’s just me.

The music’s still good, though. Vintage Pet Shop Boys is

blaring out as I roll up to the bar and wonder how trashed it’s safe
to get. How embarrassing would it be if I couldn’t get home on my

PERMANENTLY LEGLESS

own? At least they’ve got a disabled loo here. I remember that
much.

After you’ve had a three-way in a place, it tends to stick in your

mind.

Actually, come to think of it, I don’t reckon it’s ever been used

for anything but group sex. I’m going to be well hacked off later if
I have to wait for a bloody orgy to finish before I can take a leak. I
think about suggesting they keep it locked, like a lot of places do,
but on the other hand, it pisses me off something chronic to have to
ask for a key, like I’m five years old and back at school, asking
teacher’s permission to have a pee.

A space opens around me. I’d like to think it’s respect, but it’s

more likely they’re worried amputation is contagious. Or that I’ll
roll on their toes. Still, it means I get to jump the queue to order
my Scotch, so who gives a shit? I yell out my order at the bar, and
the barman looks around, startled, before finally looking down. At
least, when he’s poured my drink, he pushes it over to the edge of
the bar where I can reach it.

“If you get done for drunk in charge, I didn’t serve you,” he

says with a smile, and I give him the two-fingered salute and tell
him to keep the change.

I sip my drink and look around. Pretty boys, ugly boys,

desperate, sad old queens and a couple of tourists trying not to look
shocked. Yeah, they’re all here tonight. The place may look
different but the clientele hasn’t changed, bless ’em. Still smells
the same, too—dry ice, aftershave and sweat, with a hefty dash of
testosterone.

My gaze falls on a group over by the corner, and the warmth

from the Scotch has gone before it’s even reached my stomach.
He’s here—Josh, that was his name. Was staring over in my

PERMANENTLY LEGLESS

direction, until our gazes locked and he looked down, shame-faced.
He’s with three other blokes. The grey-haired one standing next to
him like he’s staking a claim looks a lot older than he is.

Nice to know the daddy issues are still a work in progress.
I wonder what he’s thinking. Probably thanking God I never

used  his  phone  number.  He’s  still  as  good-looking  as  ever—and
he’s  looking  over  here  again.  That’s  what  decides  it  for  me.  I
mean,  I  wasn’t  going  to  go  over  and  embarrass  him—he  was  a
sweet  enough  kid—but  all  those  guilty  looks  are  getting  right  on
my tits. So I roll on over to where he and his mates and his latest
squeeze are leaning on one of those chest-high tables in the corner.
“All right, Josh?” I call out cheerily.

Poor little sod looks like he’s going to throw up. He mutters

something that might have been my name and just stares down at
me with those big brown eyes of his. ’Course, all his mates are
staring, too, especially the boyfriend. Suddenly, this isn’t fun any
more.

“Right,” I say into the silence. “Well, I can see you’re not

feeling chatty right now, so I’ll leave you in peace. You have a
good night,” I add, trying to sound like I mean it because Josh is
looking like someone just shot Santa in front of him.

I do a nifty three-point turn and head back to the bar, calling

out the usual warnings and running over the toes of a couple of
dozy bastards too stupid to get out of my way. Halfway over,
there’s a hand on my shoulder. “Chris?”

I shrug him off and whirl around without thinking. I’m not

keen on being touched unexpectedly like that.

It’s Josh, of course.
“Chris, I’m so sorry.”
Empty words. But at least he’s saying them to me. I mean, a lot

PERMANENTLY LEGLESS

of  people  find  it  hard  to  talk  to  someone  in  a  wheelchair,  fuck
knows why. That’s why I like to get around on my own as much as
I  can.  You  turn  up  anywhere  with  an  able-bodied  mate,  it’s  like
you and your chair have gone into stealth mode. You’re so far off
the  bloody  radar  they  don’t  even  look  at  you,  much  less  talk  to
you.

But I know it’s hard if it’s someone you know and the last time

you saw them, they still had the usual complement of limbs. I’ve
had all kinds of crap, ranging from, “What the fuck happened to
you?” to “So, you been up to much lately?”

So I take pity on Josh and break the silence myself. “All right,

Josh?”

He jerks his hand in the general direction of where my legs

aren’t. “Is this why you didn’t call me?” he asks, knocking me for
six.

This is why I don’t date beautiful boys, I think to myself. Life’s

not quite the same for them as it is for you and me. Must be nice if
every time you give out your number you expect the bloke to call,
as a matter of course.

Now, usually, I’m pretty guarded. Got a great poker face. But it

looks like this time something’s slipped through the mask as he
turns away, biting his lip. “Sorry,” he mutters. “I just thought…
Sorry. You probably had lots of reasons not to call me.”

What is it about this kid that makes me feel bad for bursting his

bubble? “Come on…it’s basic math, innit? You’re a nine, probably
a ten—and even on my best days, I was no more than a five. Make
that a two and three-quarters, these days. Literally,” I add, looking
down. “Doesn’t add up, does it?” I shrug. “Didn’t expect you’d be
too keen on hearing from me once you’d sobered up anyway.
Thought you’d have forgotten all about me by now, to tell the

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truth.”

He stares at me. “You thought I was drunk?”
Great. So now I’m the villain. Next he’ll be asking if I spiked

his drinks. “Look, Josh, we’d both had a couple; it was my last
night of freedom—you know how it is, right?”

He blinks and there’s a brittle smile on his face that doesn’t suit

him. “Right. Yeah. Sorry.” He shrugs awkwardly. “I’ll see you
around, then.”

As he walks away stiffly, I wonder for a moment if I’ve just

made the biggest mistake of my life. But it was guilt, right? All
that crap about expecting me to call? Just feeling sorry for the crip,
wasn’t he? Or, you know, the whole wounded pride thing.

Yeah. That was it.
All at once, I’m not in the mood for being here any more. I

think I’ll call it a night.

But then I hear someone shouting, “Chrissie! Darling!”
I wheel round with a big grin on my face at the sound of that

poncy little voice. Good old Malcy. I haven’t seen him since I was
in the hospital the first time. He looked sicker than I did—he’s
hated hospitals ever since his mum died in one—so I told him to
piss off and I’d look him up when I got out. Then I ended up back
in there again before I could get ’round to it. “All right, Malcy?”

“Where have you been?” He stands there, hands on hips,

pretending to frown down at me. Then he takes a good look and
the frown turns real. “Chrissie, you have lost weight since I saw
you last. And not in a good way. What in God’s name happened—
did the Taliban come back for more?”

He means my left leg. “Nah, just the doctors. I’ll spare you the

details, but they had to cut some more off. I was going to sue the
hospital, but I spoke to a lawyer and it turns out I haven’t got a leg

PERMANENTLY LEGLESS

to stand on.” This time, the poker face doesn’t fail me and I get a
full ten seconds of stunned silence before he cracks up.

“Chris! You are terrible! God, the things you say… Come on,

darling. I’ll buy you a drink.” He stops halfway to the bar, and
turns round, crouching down by my chair. “Darling,” he whispers
in my ear, a horrified grimace on his face, “they didn’t take
anything else, did they?”

God, I’ve missed him. Don’t know what I’d have done without

him, back in the early days when I thought they might just as well
have taken my prick off, too, for all the action it was likely to get
with the rest of me in pieces. “Play your cards right and you might
find out later.” I leer back.

“Promises, promises!” Malcy twitters, pouting at me, then he

grins. “Come and sit with me and—oh, poot! I’ve forgotten his
name already!”

“Poot?” I ask, one of my eyebrows trying to crawl right up to

the  top  of  my  head.  “Poot?”  I  say  again  for  effect.  Sometimes  I
think  even  Malcy  forgets  what’s  really  him  and  what’s  the  act.
Because it is an act. Nine to five, he’s an office worker, boring as
they  come.  He’s  like  one  of  those  flowers  that  only  bloom  after
dark.  And,  of  course,  only  in  the  right  conditions,  which,  in  his
case,  means a total absence of people who know  him as Malcolm
Trowbridge, chartered accountant, and so far in the closet you can
smell the mothballs.

Malcy narrows his eyes like a cat about to spit. “I hope you’re

not  impugning  the  manliness  of  my  ejaculations,  darling,”  he
drawls, then ruins it by bursting into giggles. “But why didn’t you
call?” he goes on. “We could’ve come here together, done our hair
together…”  His  eyes  narrow  as  he  looks  at  my  buzz  cut.  “Well,
maybe  not  that.  Anyway,  I’ll  get  our  drinks—Southern  Comfort

PERMANENTLY LEGLESS

still okay, sweetie?—and then you can come and meet Thingy.”

I never do get to find out what Thingy’s really called because

when we get to the bar, Phil’s there, and Martin, and half a dozen
other buggers, most of whom Malcy’s obviously already filled in
about my truncated state, as they just look a bit embarrassed to see
me rather than like a bomb’s just gone off. Figuratively speaking,
obviously, in their case. A few drinks, though, and soon it’s pretty
much like old times.

Except, of course, there won’t be any pretty boys asking me to

dance tonight. Or for anything else, come to that.

I can’t help it, all right? I don’t mean to do it, but it’s like my

eyes have a homing instinct or something. Not that I mean to say
where they end up looking is, well, home, but you know what I…
Fuck it. I look over at Josh, okay?

He’s looking straight at me, and when I meet his eyes, I can’t

look away. Missiles locked. Target about to be destroyed. Or
something.

Grey-haired bloody granddad’s got an arm around Josh’s waist,

but Josh gently disengages it, says something in his ear and then
walks over to me.

He’s got a kind of grace when he walks. Big blokes like me, we

sort of lumber, like we’ve only just learned to walk on our hind
legs—waste of bloody time in my case, as it turned out. Malcy,
he’s got this fake little wiggle, like he wishes he was wearing high
heels. But Josh…he’s like a dancer, light on his feet without even
trying.

“Oh, oh, oh!” Malcy whispers in my ear. “Chrissie, darling,

what have we here?”

Josh stops by the table. He’s looking nervous; probably doesn’t

help that the conversation’s stopped and six pairs of eyes are

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looking at him like he’s the evening’s entertainment.

Come to think of it, I wouldn’t mind seeing Josh do a lap

dance.

Wouldn’t let these other buggers watch, though.
“Chris?” Josh says, just a bit too loud. “Can I buy you a

drink?”

I nod slowly. “Scotch. No ice.”
He breaks into a smile and heads to the bar. Malcy swings into

action like he’s just had the order to scramble. “Everyone? I feel a
sudden  urge  to  dance.  Come  on,  come  on,  up  you  all  get!  Shoo!
And bring  your  handbags.”  As the  chairs  scrape  against the  floor
and they all shuffle to their feet, Malcy leans down and breathes a
hot  little  martini-scented  whisper  in  my  ear.  “Is  this  all  right,
sweetie?”

“Yeah,” I tell him. “I’m a big boy now. Not as big as I used to

be, mind,” I add.

“Darling, you are dreadful. I’m quite sure you’re big enough

where it matters, and it looks like your sweetie thinks so, too. Now,
have a nice time and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!”

“Malcy,” I tell him because it’s expected, “the world has yet to

discover anything you wouldn’t do. Now go and set the dance floor
on fire.” I give him a swat on his bum as he wiggles off, laughing.

I only have to lift my gaze a fraction to see Josh coming over

with the drinks, a strange expression on his face as he looks past
me to where Malcy’s hips are disappearing into the crush on the
dance floor. He’s not… Is he? Bloody hell. Josh, jealous of Malcy.
I try to school my smile as Josh reaches the table.

“Is he your—boyfriend?” Josh asks bluntly.
I was right. He bloody well sounds jealous.
I laugh, genuinely. “Malcy? Really not my type. He’s a great

PERMANENTLY LEGLESS

mate, though. Used to visit me in hospital.” I don’t know why I say
that. If it’s anyone’s fault Josh didn’t come and see me, it’s mine.

Josh doesn’t tell me he’d have come, if he’d known. I

appreciate that. He just sort of shrugs and looks embarrassed. “We
could, um, go over and join them, if you want.”

“What, dancing? Nah, I’ve got two left wheels, me,” I tell him.
He gives me a look, like he doesn’t know if he’s supposed to

laugh or not.

“Hey, I’m not lying,” I carry on, like silence is dangerous to

your health or something.  “You see the  blokes on the  telly doing
that  dance routine in  wheelchairs? They  make  it look easy, don’t
they?  ’Course,  you  could  say  the  same  thing  about  tightrope
walkers,  and  I  wouldn’t  be  trying  that  any  time  soon,  even  if  I
hadn’t mislaid a couple of fairly important bits of equipment.”

He flinches. “How can you just make a joke about it?”
I suppose I’m silent a long time. It doesn’t seem like it to me,

but there’s so  much  going  ’round in  my head that it has to take a
while. “What the hell am I supposed to do? Sit here in this bloody
chair crying my fucking eyes out because I’m a cripple at twenty-
nine? Because they did such a piss-poor job of hacking my left leg
off  they  don’t  reckon  I’ll  ever  be  able  to  wear  a  prosthesis?
Because  the  average  bloke  on  the  street  in  this  fucking  country
couldn’t give a shit about lads like me getting blown to bits on the
other side of the world?

“You know what? I did that, and when I’d wiped the snot off

my face, I was still here, sitting in this fucking chair like I’ll be
until the day I’ll die. You’re asking me why I joke about it?
Seriously?”

He looks smaller, somehow, and I want to tell him I’m sorry.

Because it’s not his fault he’s pretty, young, and whole, and it’s

PERMANENTLY LEGLESS

certainly not his fault I’m a cripple.

“Sorry,” he says before I can. “That was a stupid question.” He

bites his lip. “How are you now, though?” He looks at my eyes as
he says it, which is another thing I’ve learned to appreciate since I
moved into a wheelchair.

I have to take a breath before I can answer. “Same as most

people,  I  suppose.  Good  days,  bad  days.  Thing  is,  even  with
this”—I  gesture  to  where  my  legs  aren’t—“there’s  always  some
bugger  worse off than  you. There’s never been a day I’ve  wished
that  bomb  had  killed  me.  At  least,  not  since  right  at  the  start,”  I
add; don’t know why. I don’t usually feel such a need to be honest
with blokes I’ve fucked once.

He smiles. “You should’ve met my dad. You’d have liked him.

He lost an arm in the Falklands back before I was born. Never let it
bother him.”

“How did he die?” Because I may not know much about

grammar, but I can tell a past tense when I hear one.

“Cancer. Fought that to the end, too.” Josh ducks his head, dark

hair falling to kiss those pretty cheekbones and whisper along his
jaw line. He smiles at his glass. “Bloody hell, how did we get onto
this?”

“Missing limbs, missing lives. It’s all the same, in the end.”

Fuck, now I’m getting maudlin, too.

He looks up sharply. “No. No, it’s not. Not at all.” He hesitates.

“I thought about you a lot, you know. Every time there was a
report of a soldier killed…” He takes a deep breath. “Stupid of me,
I know.”

Somehow, my hand’s on his, resting on the table. His fingers

are slender, delicate. Stronger than they look, though, I reckon. “I
thought of you, too,” I admit. I don’t know why it feels so much

PERMANENTLY LEGLESS

like tearing off a scab. “Out there, never knowing if the next patrol
would be my last… when I got back, I’d think of you.”

I’d always meant to ring him, I realize now. Fuck the risk of

rejection. I’d always meant to ring.

Back when I was a whole man.
“Can we go?” he asks, and it takes me a minute to work out

what he means. But his fingers are twined in mine now and there’s
only one thing he can mean.

I don’t think I ought to be scared. I mean, Christ, I’ve been shot

at, blown up… No. I shouldn’t be scared. “Go where?” I ask, and it
comes out a bit harsher than I meant it to.

“Yours? Or, you know, mine, but I thought… Anywhere. Can

we just go?”

“Why?” I ask him. And maybe it’s the whisky inside me, but I

manage to say it calmly, looking him in the eye. “Because if this is
about feeling guilty, or sorry for me, or anything like that, I’d just
as soon go back to my mates and make a right tit of myself trying
to dance in a bloody wheelchair.”

“No,” he tells me. “It’s not about that.” He’s playing with his

glass, spinning it in his hands. Seems to take a lot of concentration.

Unless, of course, there’s some other reason he can’t seem to

look me in the eye.

“Look, you’re not an easy bloke to forget, all right?” He lets go

of the glass, and it wobbles to a stop, and then, finally, he looks at
me. “Have you got any idea how many blokes I’ve turned down
for not being you?” He reaches across the table, and his fingers
ghost across my hand. “So, can we go?”

I couldn’t say no, even if I knew it’d cost me my last remaining

limbs to go with him. I can’t believe how much I’d forgotten about
him, all that time I was thinking of him. I remembered how we

PERMANENTLY LEGLESS

fucked and that it felt good, but I didn’t remember him…not really.
I forgot all about that mole on his neck, the length of his eyelashes,
and the exact shade of his eyes. I forgot the way his smile starts on
the right and then moves across, as if he’s scared something will
come to stop it halfway.

I forgot so much.
I down the last of my drink quickly, so he can’t see how my

hand is shaking, and then I roll toward the door, feeling his
presence at my side, like a mate when you’re on patrol. You don’t
have to talk. You just know you’ve got each other’s backs.

The cab ride is torture. There’s always the hassle with the

chair, and I feel naked, somehow, sitting in the back of the cab
without it. This time it’s Josh’s hand that finds mine, envelopes it.
We don’t talk much. We don’t need to.

There’s no stairs in my place—because I’m buggered if I’m

getting a bloody stair-lift like someone’s granny—so I can roll
straight into the bedroom. I lift myself out of the chair and onto the
bed, trying not to make it seem like a challenge.

Josh just stands there, looking at me. He takes a deep breath.

“It’s different, isn’t it? Doing it in a bed. Seems more personal.”
He hangs his head again, the curtain of soft brown hair falling. “I
probably sound like a prat, don’t I?”

“No,” I tell him softly. “Come here.”
He climbs on the bed, then stops there on his knees and starts to

unbutton his shirt. Last time we fucked, I never got to see what he
looked like with his clothes off.

He’s beautiful. His chest is slender, like the rest of him, but

well defined. His skin is milky-pale, and his nipples are a soft rosy
pink that’s just begging to be tasted. There’s a ring in the left one I
want to tease with my tongue. No chest hair. I don’t reckon he

PERMANENTLY LEGLESS

shaves it; that’s just what he’s like: smooth. Perfect.

Josh’s hair hangs down, a soft, dark curtain hiding his face as

he undoes his jeans. He doesn’t push them down, just leaves them
open, his cock straining against the black cotton of his briefs.
“Take it off,” I tell him. “All of it. Take it off.”

He gives me a look, but doesn’t say anything, then follows

orders. I have to swallow briefly, my mouth gone dry. He’s so
fucking beautiful. His cock’s long and slim, just like the rest of
him. Just like I remember it.

Just like I pictured it, all those nights on duty.
“You, too,” he says, but he’ll never make a sergeant major, this

one. It comes out more like a question.

“Going to make me?” I tease him, but I’m already pulling off

my T-shirt.

His prick bobs a little at the sight. There’s nothing wrong with

my chest; never has been. If anything, I’ve bulked up a bit on top
now I use my arms to get around with.

“Come here,” I tell him, and he throws a leg over my hips and

straddles me.

I reach up to grab hold of that narrow waist. Do my calloused

hands feel scratchy on his soft skin? If they do, I don’t think he’s
complaining.  His  back  arches,  and  his  chest  heaves  with  a  deep
indrawn breath. I can reach that nipple now, so I hook my tongue
in  the  ring  and  give  it  a  gentle  tug.  God,  he  tastes  just  like  I
remember,  too.  Salty-sweet,  with  a  hint  of  musk  I  know  gets
stronger as you work your way down.

For a moment, I think about all the other guys who must have

tasted him since me, and I bite down a little.

“Ah!” He breathes in sharply, but doesn’t tell me to lay off. His

hands are on my shoulders, feeling all round them like he can’t

PERMANENTLY LEGLESS

believe their size. “What?” he says, as I give a little laugh without
meaning to.

“Just wondering which of us has the weight advantage now,” I

tease him.

He grins. “Remember what you said last time? You said you

could snap me like a twig.” His hands are still measuring my
shoulders, and his tongue darts out to moisten his lips. Silly
bugger. I could do that for him. “I reckon you could still take me,”
he says.

“Good, because I’m planning to.” My voice sounds hoarse.
Josh’s hands go to my belt, then he hesitates. “Is it all right if

I…”

I look up into his eyes. They’re soft, brown and unbearably

sweet. Demerera sugar, spiced with cinnamon. And here was me
thinking that was what little girls were made of. “Worried what
you’ll see?”

“No,” he says, but I’m not daft enough to believe him.
He’s a big boy, though. He can handle it.
“Go on, then,” I tell him, and he unbuckles my belt and undoes

my jeans. My cock’s begging to be freed, and Josh seems happy to
mount a search and rescue operation, lifting the waistband of my
briefs gently over the head and then pushing them down past my
balls.

He looks up at me, and I can see the moment he bites his

tongue rather than ask me again if it’s all right. Good boy. I don’t
think he notices when I tense, just for an instant, as he pushes my
jeans down over what’s left of my legs. They’re not pretty, see.
There’s a lot of scarring.

There’s a moment of stillness. “God, that must’ve hurt so

much,” he murmurs at last, his voice ragged.

PERMANENTLY LEGLESS

There’s no way he can’t notice my tension now. I give a short

laugh.  “I’d have  been fine  if  I’d had someone  to kiss it better,”  I
tell  him,  shrugging.  And  then  I  gasp,  shocked,  because  suddenly
he’s on top of me, his lips bruising mine as he kisses me fiercely. I
can feel his hard-on grinding into mine and, for a moment, I think
I’m  going  to  lose  control,  going  to  come  before  we  even  get
started. It’s been so fucking long since I felt hot flesh against me,
so long since I felt him.

Fuck, it’s even better than I remembered.
Josh sort of whimpers as he pulls away, raising himself up on

his arms. “Have you got condoms and stuff?” he asks breathlessly.

“Top drawer,” I tell him, nodding toward the bedside cabinet.

“Take it easy, tiger,” I add, as he almost yanks the drawer out in
his haste.

Josh takes a deep breath and smiles at me, tossing his hair back

as he sits back on his heels, brandishing a foil strip and a tube of
lube like a bloody trophy. Doesn’t say anything, just rips open the
condom packet and then scoots back down the bed a bit. My prick
hardens even more as I realize what he’s going to do just seconds
before those perfect red lips close around me.

“Fuck,” I gasp out. “If you want this to last, you’re going to

have to take that easy and all.”

Josh’s eyes are bigger than ever as he lifts his head just enough

to look at me through his hair, his mouth still stretched round the
head of my cock. He swirls his tongue around once, twice—then
pulls off and puts the condom where his lips have just been.

I’m bloody glad he didn’t come ready prepared, as it gives me

a chance to pull back from the edge a bit as he lubes up and
stretches himself. Although the sight of my boy with his fingers up
his arse isn’t exactly helping me stay in control.

PERMANENTLY LEGLESS

“Want any help with that?” I ask him. “Still got all my fingers

in full working order.”

I waggle them at him, and he grins. “I remember your fingers

from last time. Nearly made me come before you got inside me.
I’m not risking that again.”

There’s a look of concentration on his face as he finishes

getting  himself  ready—heavy-lidded,  slightly  tense  around  the
mouth.  Reminds  me  of  how  he  looks  when  he  comes.  “You’re
fucking  gorgeous,  you  know  that?”  I  tell  him,  and  he  looks
embarrassed, like no one’s ever paid him a compliment before.

“Nah, too skinny,” he mutters.
“You’re perfect.” It’s God’s truth. “Now, come here and show

me just how fucking perfect you are.”

His fingers are trembling just a little as he lubes up my cock. I

reckon mine would be, too, come to that. And then he lowers
himself and there’s a moment of resistance, but then his body
opens up to me, starts pulling me inside, and it’s all I can do not to
grab him by the hips and force him down on me.

I thought I’d remembered how it felt to be inside him. But that

was the edited-for-TV version, seen on a black-and-white portable.
This is the full-color, 3D, surround sound cinematic experience,
and, Christ, I could watch this movie all day. He’s so tight around
me, like I’m a knife in a sheath made to measure. Slowly, he slides
down on my length until there’s nowhere else to go and holds it
there for a moment.

“Sorry… it’s been a while,” he says, like it’s something he

needs to apologize for, the daft bugger.

I run my hands up his sides and around to his chest, then give

that pierced nipple another little tug so it doesn’t forget me. I can
feel him tensing around me, and his breath comes hard and fast.

PERMANENTLY LEGLESS

“Come here,” I tell him, and he leans down and kisses me.

Then  he  starts  to  move,  and  if  it  was  perfect  before,  I’ve  got  no
words  left  to  describe  how  it  feels  now.  It  gets  a  bit  awkward  to
carry  on  kissing,  but  neither  of  us  seems  to  mind,  so  we  carry  on
mashing our lips together, tongues jabbing at each other’s mouths,
as he does his best to finish what the Taliban started and blow me
completely to pieces.

Just as I can’t bear it any longer, he gasps into my mouth, and I

feel hot spunk shooting between us, spattering my stomach and
chest, and just the thought of it takes me over. I splinter apart, and
I know I’m shouting something, but I don’t have a bloody clue
what, and my arms tighten on Josh as wave after wave of pleasure
hits me like a mortar attack.

* * *

The following Saturday, I’m at the pub with Nate again for the

usual liquid lunch, and I’m actually watching the footie this time.
Well, Manchester United are getting their arses kicked, so you
would, wouldn’t you?

“Coming down the pub tonight, Nate?” I ask as the whistle

blows. Berbatov’s just taken a dive, and the opposition is crowding
around the ref like a bunch of teenage girls having a hissy fit.

“Nah,” Nate says, squirming in his seat a bit like he’s got

worms.

“What… you got a date or something?” I ask, trying to sound

like I’m not bloody astounded.

“Yeah.”
“So?”
“So what?”

PERMANENTLY LEGLESS

“So who’s the bird, you wanker?”
He squirms again. “Cheryl.”
“You what?”
“Cheryl.”
“Cheryl at the bar?” I hesitate, and my eyes flick over to the tall

figure leaning on the bar as she waits for the next order. “You do
know she’s…”

“Transgender? Yeah. You got a problem with that?” he asks,

glaring at me like a pit bull that’s had too much caffeine.

“Me? Fuck, no.” I pause. “It’s just, I never knew that about

you.”

“Knew what?” He’s still looking like he ought to be muzzled

by law.

“Well, you know. That you, uh…” I pause again. “That you

knew any words with three syllables,” I finish, grinning.

Nate glares at me again. “Masturbator.”
“What?”
“It means wanker, you wanker. And it’s got four syllables.

Anus. You want to know what that means, ask your boyfriend.”
Nate stops grinning and gives me a look. “Hang on, though. Aren’t
you seeing Josh again tonight, then?”

I smile. “Oh, I’m seeing him. I’m seeing a lot of him.” I shrug.

“Thought I might bring him ’round here, that’s all. Let him meet
the crowd.”

Nate casts his eyes around the pub, then gives me a look. “You

really want a bloke you care about to meet these tossers?”

“Fair point,” I tell him, grinning. “Maybe we’ll just have a

quiet night in.” My grin gets wider. “Again,” I add, and my pulse
is speeding up already at the thought of it.

I promised him a ride on my wheelchair tonight.

ERROW

J.  L.  Merrow  is  that  rare  beast,  an  English  person  who  refuses  to
drink  tea.  She  read  Natural  Sciences  at  Cambridge,  where  she
learned  many  things,  chief  amongst  which  was  that  she  never
wanted to see the inside of a lab ever again. Her one regret is that
she  never  mastered  the  ability  of  punting  one-handed  whilst
holding  a  glass  of  champagne.  She  writes  across  genres,  with  a
preference for contemporary gay romance and the paranormal, and
is frequently accused of humour.

To learn more about J. L., please visit her website at:

http://www.jlmerrow.com

* * *

Don’t miss Sex, Lies and Edelweiss

by J. L. Merrow,

available at AmberAllure.com!

On holiday in the Austrian Lakes, Simon Lavoisier, an attorney
from Britain, tells himself he’s just looking for a little holiday fling
to spice up his apple strudel. But he’s never been good at keeping
things casual, and it’s not long before he finds himself falling for
Matt, the handsome waiter at the Königshof Hotel with whom he’s

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