Peepshow

Peepshow

An Amber Quill Press Book

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

http://www.AmberHeat.com

http://www.AmberAllure.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 978-1-61124-446-5

Published in the United States of America

Also by Clare London

Between A Rock And A Hard Place

Chase The Ace

A Good Neighbor

Heart And Home

Home Sweet Home

How The Other Half Lives

Muse

Upwardly Mobile

PEEPSHOW

Ken had to admit he hated his job. With a passion. Or,

rather, with a slow burning boredom and distaste. Passion
implied some kind of energy--the agony and the ecstasy!-
-and Ken had none of that left after another night sitting in
the small, stuffy room and gazing at a wall of screens.

He leaned back in his hard-backed chair, stretched and

yawned.  A  glance  at  the  clock  confirmed  it  was  a  good
hour  until  the  official  break  time,  when  the  steroid-
enhanced  Tomas  would  reluctantly  pause  in  strutting  his
security  patrol  around  the  shopping  centre  to  cover  Ken
while he went for a coffee and a sandwich.  Then another
two hours until the end of the shift at two A.M., when old
Charlie  would  shuffle  in  for  his  duty,  complete  with  his
tatty Aran cardigan, his  Maeve  Binchy paperback, and an
oversized  thermos  of  homemade  vegetable  soup,  to  take
over from Ken until the offices opened. Ken sighed. What
a  way  to  spend  a  Saturday  night--or  any  night,  for  that
matter.

Over three hours to go.
Over three hours...
He yawned again. The screens flickered and settled

into a range of views from another angle. There was a
bank of them, covering critical points around the shopping

centre, and they were manned 24/7. Ken was one of those
"manning"  people.  He  was  meant  to  watch  the  screens
closely at all times. The centre was a small local one, on
the  edge  of  town,  really  just  a  dozen  shops  hanging  out
together  under  the  same  roof.  But  all  the  same,  it  was
packed  with  prestigious  stores  and  valuable  goods,  and
constantly  at  threat  from  thieves,  vandals  and  general
abusers.  Or  so  Ken's  summer-job  employers,  Safeguard
Assured, would have people believe.

Ken thought it wouldn't be so bad if he actually saw

something. Look  out,  it's  beHIND  you! He  knew  it  was
ludicrous to wish for theft, vandalism, or general abuse--
whatever  that  covered--but  he'd  been  working  here  for
over  a  month  now  and  he'd  seen  nothing  untoward.
Nothing at all. No fights, no malicious damage to the shops
or  the  building,  no  tanks  ramming  through  the  night-time
shutters, no intercontinental ballistic missiles shrieking in
from  the  dark  night  skies  above--only  twenty-four  hours
left to protect historic London!--to destroy everything the
population held dear...

Okay, so his mind was rambling again. His Mum

always said he had a vivid imagination. He'd chosen well
when he took a Media and Film Studies course at
University. Of course, Mum's respect wasn't always
matched by the rest of the family--Dad said Ken lived in a
fantasy world, and his teenage brother Joe said he was just
a sad bloke. Ken sighed again. He knew he was pretty safe

here  in  the  control  room--except,  of  course,  from  the
intercontinental  ballistic  missile  scenario--because  he
wasn't expected to leap into personal action if he saw any
crime  taking  place.  There'd  never  been  any  training
session for that, just a brief run-through of the screens and
the  logging  in  and  out  procedures,  and  a  schedule  of  the
nighttime shifts. He'd been given a list of contact numbers
if he needed help. From the way his boss had wrinkled his
nose  at  that,  Ken  knew  he  wouldn't  be  welcome  if  he
called  up  at  a  quarter  to  midnight  to  ask  where  the  milk
was  for  his  tea. I'm  sorry,  caller,  there's  no  record  of
that number...   No,  the  contact  numbers  were  for  the  duty
security guards like Tomas, and also an emergency number
to  the  local  police  station.  That  was  if  something  went
seriously wrong.

Which it never did.
No, of course he wasn't inviting that missile again. But

Ken  hadn't  seen  any  action  so  far  except  people  coming
and going at the fast food outlets, which stayed open until
the  early  hours  of  the  morning.  He  swung  aimlessly  back
and  forth  on  his  chair,  and  opened  another  packet  of
cheesy  snacks.  He  could  feel  the  coating  sticking  to  his
teeth, but at least chewing it off helped to keep him awake.
T he Lord  of  the  Rings  paperback--three  books  in  one,
special  offer!--had  been  last  week's  additional  incentive,
but the boxed set of assorted crime thrillers he'd borrowed
from Mum--murder, intrigue, and suspense from some of

Britain's  finest!--hadn't  worked  as  effectively  this  week.
Screen-watchers  weren't  meant  to  spend  their  time  with
their  head  in  a  book--how  would  they  see  the  incoming
missile?--but  it  was  about  the  only  way  to  keep  the
boredom at bay.

"You should knit," his mate Simon had suggested.

Simon  knitted,  but  not  lumpy  long  scarves  or  hideously
misshapen  Christmas  gloves  like  Ken's  gran.  Si  created
cool  beanie  hats  and  cotton  gilets  and  wonderful  album
cover designs on sweaters. He was studying Design at the
same  University,  with  fellow  students  far  more  arty  than
Ken's peers, judging by their clothing and the bold interior
design of their rooms.  Ken had tried knitting a hat once--
you  shouldn't  knock  it  until  you've  tried  it,  right?--and
Mum  was  still  using  it  as  a  tea  cosy.  She  said  the  gaps
down the side gave the steam somewhere to go. Ken hadn't
battled with knitting needles again--he was happier with a
storyboard.  Yet  where  had  his  first  year  of  film  studies
taken  him?  Watching  rain  fall  on  the  concrete  pavement
outside a shopping centre, for hours at a time.  There was
irony there, somewhere.

He'd tried plenty of things to help pass the time. He'd

played  solitaire  until  he  found  himself  almost  homicidal
when a three of clubs refused to reveal itself. The book of
crosswords  had  been  abandoned  at  page  nine,  after  he'd
expressed  his  frustration  by  writing  every  obscene  word
he could think of, whether they fit the grid or not. And his

song writing attempts had never got any further than I woke
up  this  morning,  when  he  started  salivating  for  bacon
sandwiches  and  brown  sauce.  He'd  tried  sketching  out  a
storyboard for a film project of his own but, unfortunately,
Charlie  had  caught  sight  of  it  one  night,  and  now  he  kept
suggesting Ken should remake a couple of Maeve Binchy's
classic  stories.  Charlie  even  suggested  casting,  and  the
songs for the soundtrack. Much as he liked the old codger,
Ken now found it less teeth grinding to keep that work for
the  privacy  of  his  own  room.  So  he  was  back  to  nothing
but the screens for distraction.

There was a small yard at the back of one of the

restaurants  where  the  waiters  came  out  to  smoke.  It  was
plumb in the middle of Ken's central screen. The shopping
centre also had a trio of places to spend the evening. This
one was a French bistro, Ken believed, though he'd never
thought  he  could  afford  to  eat  there. Spare  a  coin  for  a
sandwich,  sir?  He  didn't  have  sound  as  well  as  a  view,
but  he  watched  the  way  the  waiting  staff  nodded  to  each
other,  laughed,  shared  matches  for  the  ciggies.  There
wasn't  much  space  to  move  around,  because  the  wall
between the restaurant and the next-door dry cleaners was
covered almost entirely with huge, shoulder-high recycling
and  waste  bins.  The  waiters  leaned  against  the  bins  or
scuffed  their  shoes  on  them.  Sometimes  the  chef  opened
the door from the restaurant and yelled at them to get their
arses  back  to  work.  Well,  Ken  couldn't  actually  hear  the

words,  but  the  chef's  face  looked  flushed  and  impatient,
and Ken's imagination supplied the language. Although the
waiters  rolled  their  eyes  and  mimicked  his  gestures  as
soon  as  he  turned  his  back,  they  usually  stubbed  out  the
cigarettes quickly and shuffled back indoors.

Sometimes, Ken saw them leaving at the end of their

shift, from a gate at the farthest point of the yard. It was a
shortcut back to the housing estate across the ring road. He
had to imagine the gate, because it was out of view of the
camera,  but  they'd  tumble  out  of  the  back  door  to  the
restaurant  with  their  coats  on  and  backpacks  slung  over
their  shoulders,  waving  and  joking  with  their  colleagues.
There  was  a  group  of  friends  who  seemed  to  work  and
travel  everywhere  together;  a  couple  of  men  who  were
obviously  a  romantic  couple;  a  mother  and  daughter  who
still  had  a  smile  for  each  other  after  a  long  night  in  the
kitchen.

Ken grimaced. So it had come to this--he was getting

familiar  with  the  grainy  black  and  white  faces  of  people
he'd never meet in real life, probably didn't want to meet,
and  who  probably  wouldn't  want  to  meet  him.  He  didn't
think of them as friends, did he? That's what his other good
mate Robbie said when Ken shared some of his stories at
the  pub.  "You're  not  mates  with  these  people,  Kenny.
That'd  be  bloody  weird."  Everyone  around  the  table
agreed with Robbie. In fact, Ken laughed and agreed, too.

Because that's not how it was. He preferred to

consider  the  people  caught  on  CCTV  as  his  own  private
soap  opera. Previously,  on  the  Southfield  Shopping
Centre  Security  Channel...  The  foxes  that  came  around,
sniffing  at  the  restaurant  bins,  arrogantly  careless  of
anyone else.  The police cars that periodically cruised the
front  of  the  centre.  The  fat  man  who  ran  the  all-night
grocer/newsagents, who took a break every now and then,
drained a bottle of cola and had a thorough scratch of his
crotch through trousers shiny with wear. The young couple
who stocked up the  Moroccan café at weekends and who
loitered in the service road behind the shop for a snogging
session.  The  boy  would  have  taken  it  further,  Ken  could
see  his  eagerness--and  bloody  quick  hands--but  the  girl
was  always  looking  over  her  shoulder  in  case  someone
caught them.

Yes, there actually was a lot of activity in and around

the  centre.  Ken  could  weave  it  into  his  film  projects,  he
could  let  it  inspire  him.  Everyone  enjoyed  people
watching,  didn't  they?  He  just  felt  that  it  wasn't  what  he
was  employed  to  watch  out  for.  It  was  benign.  It  was
commonplace.  Sometimes  he  felt  just  like  a  voyeur,  but
without the sexiness.

A waiter ambled out of the French bistro, and Ken's

attention darted back to that screen. The young man moved
quickly--maybe he only had a few minutes' break--and he
made for the far corner of the yard. It was just a couple of
square feet behind the furthest bin, and out of reach of the

security  lights.  The  only  CCTV  screen  that  covered  that
part of the view was one of the oldest and with the poorest
picture.  Sometimes  one  of  the  waiting  staff  would  sneak
behind  the  bin,  and  Ken  assumed  it  was  because  they
didn't want to be seen, either by CCTV or from inside the
restaurant.

Was that what this man was doing? He had his back to

Ken, who couldn't see for definite what was up. Was he
smoking? Taking drugs? Ken had seen it on other
evenings. Was he meant to report that kind of thing, or just
crimes that involved damage to the centre itself? And how
hypocritical would he be, when he'd smoked more than a
few things in his time?

He peered more closely and wished there was a zoom

feature. He didn't like to touch the controls too much, since
the time he fiddled with the brightness, messed up screens
one  to  four  and  spent  three  hours  looking  at  static--I'm
breaking up! I'm breaking up!--until Charlie arrived. The
old man had shrugged at Ken's apology, turned the control
button  to  its  fullest  point,  thumped  somewhere  under  the
desk, and the screens all popped back into focus. Lucky, of
course, the missile hadn't arrived at that very time, though
Ken  rather  thought  there'd  have  been  other  clues  if  the
building had been attacked.

Now, the man in the yard turned his head and Ken

caught sight of his shadowed profile. He wasn't smoking,
he was sucking juice from a carton. A new employee? Ken

didn't  think  he'd  noticed  him  before.  Tall,  lithe  body  in
tight  black  trousers  and  a  white  shirt  that  stretched  taut
over  his  pecs,  short-cropped  dark  hair,  prominent  but
attractive nose. Ken couldn't see his eyes, he was looking
down  at  the  carton,  but  the  heavy  lids  were  sexy.  Even
though the picture was blurred, Ken could tell that clearly
enough. And the way his lips tightened on the carton straw
was...

Be still, my beating heart.
Ken laughed at himself, a little bitterly. His poor old

dick hadn't hardened that quickly in a long time.

He shifted on the seat, trying to get comfortable again.

He really needed to get back out in the dating game again.
Oh wait, first he had to find the time to date, didn't he? But
if and when he did, this was just the kind of look he'd
always liked, even since school days, however shallow
Mum would say that was...

And then the guy turned toward the camera so that one

side of his face eased out of the shadows--and he winked.

Huh? Ken leaned forward in his chair, startled, but the

moment was gone. The waiter turned on his heel, threw his
empty carton into the bin and sauntered back inside the
restaurant.

* * * *

At the pub the following night, Simon returned to his

current aid programme for Ken's love life. "He said you
should call him up. I think he's cute."

"Who? And what do you mean, cute? Me-cute or you-

cute?"  Ken  was  trying  to  catch  their  mate  Robbie's  eye
over  at  the  bar.  He  only  wanted  a  soft  drink  this  time
around, but Robbie was notorious for drinking challenges.
With resignation,  Ken watched  Robbie return to the table
with a tray of full pints of beer.

"Ollie Robinson," Simon said, studiously avoiding

Ken's question about their relative taste in men, which had
never been similar. "He's not like he was in school."

"In school? Our school?"
"You don't mean Rolly Ollie, do you?" said Robbie.

He laughed far too loudly, a testament to the four pints he'd
already downed. He didn't get aggressive or pathetic when
drunk, just louder and louder. "He was in my Chemistry
class. Size of a beer barrel, thick glasses, spots like baked
beans, total swot. Geekness on knobbly-kneed legs."

"Robbie, how come the rest of us have matured but

your  humour's  stuck  in  primary  school?"  Simon  wrinkled
his nose and frowned. "I met Ollie a couple of weeks ago
at  the  cinema,  and  he's  keen  to  catch  up  with  as  many
school  friends  as  he  can  find.  He's  really  interested  to
discover  what  they're  doing  now,  while  he's  back  from
Oxford for the holiday."

"Doesn't one say going down from Oxford?" Robbie

muttered and leered at Simon. "I recall he couldn't keep
his hands off you in Games."

Simon shook his head. "You're such a prick. And the

phrase is coming down, not going."

"Works for me, either way." Robbie snickered.
"Ollie may have embraced his sexuality a little earlier

than  others  I  could  mention,  but  he's  looking  good  on  it.
Plus,  he's  as  bright  as  he  always  was,  seems  to  be  doing
okay at  Oxford. And he's very much slimmer than he was
at  school."  Simon  gave  a  small  wince  of  distress.  "Much
better skin."

Robbie just laughed and reached for the next pint. Ken

knew  Si  was  referring  to  the  time  it  had  taken  Robbie  to
find  his  own  epiphany  and  admit  publicly  he  was  gay.  It
had  happened  only  six  months  ago  when  he  had  a  brief,
tempestuous  and  athletically  sexual  affair  with  Steve,  his
male  ex-tutor.  Since  they  broke  up,  Robbie  had  been
making up for lost time by dating everything and anything
with  a  pulse,  with  only  a  few--and  very  minor--
exceptions. Not that Simon and Ken hadn't known Robbie
was  gay,  for  years.  They'd  been  the  only  ones,  though--
when  Si  had  been  wearing  pale  blue  cravats  with  his
school uniform, and Ken had been facing his parents with
the slightly startling news he didn't have any designs on the
next-door  neighbour's  daughter,  Robbie  had  been  the
loudest  and  most  obnoxious  bully  in  the  rugby  team.
They'd  all  ended  up  at  the  local  University,  albeit  on
different courses, and Si and Ken had just bided their time
before Robbie came out. Frankly, my dear, I don't give a
damn.  By  now,  their  friendship  was  deep,  comfortable,

reliable--and, like many groups of young male friends,
ruthlessly teasing.

"I'm not sure it's a good thing to dwell on the past,"

Ken said. He felt a flush creeping up his neck.

"How come? We've stood the test of time, haven't

we?"

"Ken means," Robbie said, leaning in with his arms

around both of their shoulders and breathing beer fumes on
Ken's cheek, "that he hasn't got over his crush on Jimmy
Evans in the Year Eleven LGBT club."

"For God's sake." Ken punched Robbie in the arm, not

lightly, but Robbie ignored him. "That was years ago. We
were only sixteen, too young to know what the hell was
going on. If he'd even been interested." Methinks he doth
protest too much.

"You were mad for him," Robbie continued

relentlessly. "Moping everywhere. First lurve, I'd say.
Never saw you like that again."

"Shut up," Ken protested, though that never usually

stopped Robbie.

"He was a good bloke, I'll say that for Jimmy Evans.

One  of  the  lads  in  rugby  and  cricket,  but  decent  to  the
girls.  And  he  looked  after  his  family.  Didn't  his  dad  get
ill?"  Robbie  took  another  slurp  of  beer.  "Have  to  ask
Ollie, eh, Si? He's the go-to guy, according to you."

"Whatever." Simon always ignored any digs from

Robbie, and Ken was only glad the topic had shifted from

his  own,  unconsummated  love  life.  "But  I  think  Robbie's
right.  About  the  need  to  move  on."  Simon  looked
disturbed.  "I  don't  particularly  want  to  recall  the  time
Wanker Watts pushed my head into the toilet."

"Or when I threw up in my pencil case in the middle of

dissecting that frog," Robbie added.

"Or when I fell over Pete Stone's oversized boots and

ripped the seat of my trousers, right at the beginning of
school assembly." Ken grimaced. "I was wearing Legend
of Zelda cartoon boxers that day."

They looked at each other, paused, and then laughed.

Robbie raised his pint and clinked cheers with Simon and
Ken.

"I'm not looking for a blind date," Ken said to Simon.

"I'm going to work all I can through the summer, save my
money, and then travel the world after I graduate next year.
This is the first job I've got that pays decently. But there's
no time to date as well."

"You get some free evenings, don't you? Ollie has a

holiday  job  as  well,  of  course.  You  just  have  to  check
diaries."  Simon  started  scrabbling  in  his  pocket  for  his
mobile.  "What's  your  duty  schedule  next  week  looking
like?"

Ken caught Robbie's eye. Robbie took a large gulp of

beer and rolled his eyes back at Ken. "Not going to
happen, Si," Ken said, as firmly as he could. "I'll sort
things out for myself, thanks very much."

"Okay, but if you need my superb liaison skills ..."

Simon  shrugged,  and  frowned  again  as  Robbie  gave  an
enthusiastic  belch.  "You  remind  me  I  have  to  get  another
job  myself,  now  my  shift  at  the  cinema's  finished.  Ollie
said  he'd  look  out  for  a  job  for  me  at  his  place,  but  the
trouble  is,  I  hate  waiting  jobs.  I  may  hang  out  for
something at the library."

"Ollie's got a job at a restaurant?"
Simon nodded and sipped at his pint as neatly as

possible, probably to counteract Robbie's slurping. "I can't
remember the name, but it's in the shopping centre."

"The Twice as Spice? The Thai Pin?" Robbie grunted.

"Bloody stupid names. Or the poncey new French bistro
beside the games store?"

"The...bistro?" Ken felt the mental cogs of his brain

click over and settle in a new pattern. My brain! It's my
second favourite organ! Curiosity, of course, nothing
more.

Simon shrugged again. "Can't remember. It's a long

shift though. Too much like hard work for me."

"Right." Ken nodded. Then nodded again, like the toy

dog on the back shelf of Dad's car.

Robbie was peering at him, suddenly perceptive.

That's how he often was--loud and sharp. "You could find
out, couldn't you, Kenny?"

"What?"
Robbie gave another hearty laugh. "I bet you see

another side of life on those screens. Better than any
peepshow from in here, when all we get is a dog peeing
on the lamppost outside and empty fried chicken boxes in
the gutter."

"I hope you're not implying I'm spying on people," Ken

said. "That'd be an abuse of my position, wouldn't it?"

"Works for me." Robbie turned on his best double

entendre leer.

"Shut up and drink your bloody beer." Ken glared at

him. "I don't watch anything in particular, okay?"

Robbie just laughed again. "I was having you on. I

mean, half those CCTV cameras are just empty boxes on
the wall, aren't they? It's just a deterrent."

"Yeah, that's right." Help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi, you're

my only hope. "I only see shop fronts and backyards."

"When there are all those cute arses to check out? You

really are one unlucky bloke," Robbie announced with a
blustering laugh. Two people at the table behind them
winced at the blare of sound.

"So," Ken said, with enforced cheer, and determined

to change the subject. "Who do you fancy to win Sunday's
game?"

* * * *

Astonishing, really, Ken thought, but he was actually

looking forward to work the next night. He'd brought the
crime novels with him--stylish, fast-paced thrillers!--but
he never even got them out of the box. He made himself a

large coffee, passed the time of day with Suzie, the mother
of three who often took the shift before him, and then
settled in with a new enthusiasm.

Was he refreshed from his night out with friends?

Energised  by  the  conjunction  of  the  planets?  Or  secretly
eager  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  new  waiter  at  the  French
bistro? Be  yourself;  everyone  else  is  already  taken,  as
Oscar  Wilde  apparently  said,  and  Ken  was  unfailingly
honest  with  himself.  He  knew  his  curiosity  was  piqued.
Waiter--as  he  would  now  be  called--had  something  that
had  fascinated  Ken,  and  maybe  not  just  in  the cute-arse
way, as  Robbie said.  Though,  God, when he remembered
that  purse  of  lips  around  the  straw  and  the  easy  way  the
man moved...

And the wink. He had no idea what that had been

about. Just a trick of the light? Ken knew how familiar the
CCTV  cameras  were  at  the  back  of  the  stores.  Most
people  didn't  even  notice  them  there,  at  least  not  if  they
had nothing to hide. So it was highly unlikely Waiter knew
anyone  was  watching.  Wasn't  it?  Ken  felt  as  if  he  were
debating  with  his  own  brain.  It  had  probably  just  been  a
reflection from one of the security lights. No chance at all
it was deliberate. Even if that's how it looked? No. Even if
it  were...  Well,  it  wouldn't  be  directed  at  Ken,  would  it?
Because  no  one  knew  he  was  here.  Who  else  apart  from
his  largely  unsympathetic  and  mischievous  mates  knew
Ken spent half his evenings as that sad bloke, watching the

time go slowly by without any other entertainment except
an occasional graffiti artist darting in and out of shot, one
hand shaking an aerosol can?

Ken leaned back in his chair, his coffee forgotten, his

legs  suddenly  tense.  The  wink  had  been  astonishing  and
confusing, and it had made Ken's heart skip a beat. Nudge,
nudge,  wink,  wink.  Know  what  I  mean?  It  was  mystery
and  excitement!  An  unexpected  thrill.  Ken  smiled,  even
though  there  was  no  one  there  to  see.  What  an  idiot  he
was,  creating  these  dreams  and  bizarre  scenarios  in  his
mind.  Living his life in a movie,  Joe said.  Way too much
time  on  his  own,  Dad  said.  Sexual  frustration,  Si  would
say.  Bloody  weird,  would  be  Robbie's  all-too-familiar
response.

Then Waiter wandered out of the restaurant again. Ken

leaned toward the screen, all the other views of the centre
forgotten.  The  young  man  was  standing  on  the  far  side  of
an  older,  taller  man,  and  as  far  as  Ken  could  see,  they
were  relaxed,  maybe  grinning,  and  shaking  their  heads  at
each other.  The older man offered  Waiter a cigarette, but
he refused it. Then they both turned abruptly, looking back
toward the restaurant door. Had someone called for them?
Waiter  was  still  largely  hidden  from  Ken's  view.  The
older  man  heaved  his  wide  shoulders  in  a  shrug,  and
walked back indoors, but Waiter stayed outside.

Ken took a deep breath. If only the guy would turn

around properly, show Ken his face under the security

light! Instead, Waiter leaned back against the bin and
angled his head up to the sky, maybe enjoying the fresh air
after a busy session in the restaurant. He reached down
and pulled his shirt out of his waistband. Flapped the hem
a little as if cooling himself down.

How had Ken described himself the previous night--a

voyeur  without  the  sexiness?  He  felt  a  flush  start  at  his
neck, as it always did, but this time it started to roll down
his  whole  body.  Well,  here  came  the  sexiness,  after  all.
He could see a strip of bare skin where Waiter's trousers
dipped  at  the  side.  When  Waiter  stretched  up,  the  strip
became a patch. He savoured the stretch, reaching up one
arm then another, crossing them behind his head, leaning to
one side then the other, like a fitness routine.

Ken watched every damned move, every stretch of the

slim,  athletic  body.  Waiter  walked  slowly  over  to  the
hidden  part  of  the  yard,  tucking  himself  behind  the  bin.
Ken  strained  to  see  more  of  him.  His  face  had  still  been
maddeningly in shadow. For the first time since the Screen
Static Disaster--I sense a disturbance in the  Force--Ken
grabbed  and  twisted  the  knobs  for  brightness,  contrast,
anything, to get a better view.

Look this way... This way, damn you...
Waiter turned slightly. He was eating something. Ken

could  see  most  of  his  chin,  though  only  a  glimmer  of
moisture  from  his  lips.  Waiter  was  feeding  something  in,
then  pulling  out  his  fingers,  licking  something  off  them.

Ken  felt  his  breath  catch  sharply  in  his  chest.  Waiter  had
his  fingers  in  his  mouth.  His  mouth.  He  was  sucking  on
them, licking between the digits.  Between his lips, in and
out. Sugar, maybe? Chocolate? Definitely a sticky coating.

Oh my fucking God.
Ken's dick felt swollen in his boxers. How mad was

this? He was getting excited by shadows and silhouette, by
the twist of a lean body, by the tease of a guy snatching a
late night snack. He shifted on his seat again, gaze fixed on
the screen. There was something familiar about Waiter.
Maybe. But Ken didn't know if that was just because he'd
been watching so closely. Oh, so close...

Waiter held his hand still for a moment as if he'd

finished, but then seemed to find one last trace that needed
licking clean. He looked like he was smiling, but that
could have been a shadow off the fence across his cheek.

Ken wriggled on his seat and considered the wisdom

of wearing sweat pants to work in future. A small bead of
sweat tickled at his hairline. He searched his memory for
images of Ollie Robinson, but all he could remember was
a  school  uniform  stretched  over  a  tubby  belly,  like
Robbie's  cruel  verbal  portrait.  Ollie  had  left  before  the
end of school for a special science college that served the
gifted  child.  None  of  them  had  seen  him  for  around  two
years  at  least,  though  Si  hadn't  said  he  had  any  trouble
recognising him when they met up again. Ollie was blond,
wasn't he? This guy was dark, though people changed their

hair colour, of course. And could Ollie really have lost all
that  weight  and  toned  up  quite  so  spectacularly?  Ken's
eyes  ached  from  staring  too  hard.  How  much  did  people
change  between  those  last  couple  of  years  of  school  and
the  start  of  adulthood?  He  thought  of  his  own  struggles
with  spots  and  growth  spurts  and  the  weird  mix  of
excitement  and  embarrassment  whenever  he  got  an
erection, for inappropriate reasons--

Like right now. He pressed on his lap, trying to ease

the tension. Just at that moment, Waiter stopped teasing at
his hand, wiped it casually on his trouser leg, and stepped
out from behind the bins.

Teasing. Yes, that was the word. He turned away

again before Ken could catch full sight of his features, and
this  time,  Ken  was  sure  it  was  deliberate.  It  really  did
look  as  if  the  guy  knew  someone  was  watching,  and  he
was playing to it.  He was messing with  Ken's head, and-
-if I may draw attention to the main facts of the case, my
Lord--with  Ken's  cock.  With  a  deep  breath  of  fortitude,
Ken turned deliberately to watch another screen.  Over by
the jewellers, a stray dog had peed on the doorframe, and
the puddle slowly trickled outward, a jagged black line on
the grey pavement.

When Ken finally felt in control of his nether regions

and  turned  back,  the  yard  behind  the  bistro  was  deserted
and  still.  On  other  screens,  some  kids  were  knocking  a
football  against  the  wall  of  the  designer  menswear  store.

A group of girls in fluffy bunny ears and obviously on a
hen night stumbled against the locked entrance of the
centre, then dashed away in paroxysms of laughter.

Ken tried to ignore the wave of disappointment that

swamped  him.  His  erection  had  responded  to  the
distraction and gone down, but that wasn't to say it didn't
retain a quick twitch of hope. Dear God. What had he said
to  Robbie?  It  wasn't  spying? It'd  be  an  abuse  of  my
position.  Pompous,  but  bloody  true,  surely.  His  mind
retained  that  lean  silhouette,  the  swift  movement,  the
stripes  of  shadow  across  the  white  shirt  and  dark  work
trousers. It was a vivid memory. He re-ran the scene in his
mind,  frame  by  frame,  like  sketching  a  storyboard.  There
were no recognisable features on his character, just casual
movement,  easy  confidence,  and  the  hint  of  a  smile.  Ken
knew  this  wasn't  a  real  story,  just  a  slice  of  life,  a
momentary,  sensual  pleasure.  Yet  it  fascinated  him.  He
had  the  distinct  feeling  that  even  if  the  intercontinental
ballistic  missile  decided  to  attack  Southfield  Shopping
Centre  tonight,  Waiter's  reappearance  would  draw  Ken's
attention away at just that critical moment.

I'd be blown to pieces, but very happy ones. Ken

sighed and took an absentminded slurp from his cup of
cold coffee. It was going to be a long night.

* * * *

The next time they were all down the pub, Monday

night, sitting around one of the small tables and enjoying

their first pint, Ken braced himself for the inquisition.

"So, did you think any more about getting together with

Ollie?" Simon asked, apparently casually. He looked
rather bright tonight, his latest shirt a shade of purple that
flattered his pale features but also clashed wincingly with
his green coat and scarf.

"No time. I've been doing extra shifts." Ken gave a

dismissive shrug that he hoped would dissuade them from
returning to the subject of his love life--or lack of.

No such bloody luck.
"We had coffee after his lunch-time shift yesterday,"

Simon said. "He asked after you."

"Very decent of him," Ken replied.
"You need to get out more, Kenny. All work and no

play, remember?" Robbie cast a sly glance at Simon
across the table. Simon winked back at him.

"Drop it, okay? Both of you," Ken said, snappily. "I

need money more than romance."

"Who says so?" Robbie said. "Money isn't

everything."

There spoke the man who never had any that he didn't

spend  on  beer,  even  if  he  was  generous  with  that.  Ken
shook  his  head,  wearily.  His  eyes  ached  tonight  and  he
didn't  think  it  was  because  he'd  stayed  up  late  last  night
researching  Kubrick:  His  Life  and  Films,  one  of  his
holiday  essay  topics.  Which,  of  course,  he  hadn't.  He'd
been ogling some poor young sod who worked long, hard

hours  at  a  restaurant,  and  then  suffered  his  leisure  time
being mercilessly stalked by a perve on CCTV. Heeeere's
Kenny!  Every  second  that  Ken  peered  at  the  screen,
hoping  for  Waiter  to  appear,  his  internal  shame  factor
increased.  He  could  persuade  himself  he  was  just  doing
his  job,  a  sentry  on  duty.  Then  a  flicker  of  movement
outside the bistro would have him spinning around on his
chair,  everything  else  forgotten  and  ignored  as  he  fixated
on  the  one  screen  that  may  bear  fruit. Personal  fruit,  that
was. Yes, sadly, perve was the word. The previous night,
when  Charlie came to relieve him,  Ken all but leaped up
from  his  chair  in  fright.  He'd  never  heard  the  old  man
coming in, he was so engrossed in Waiter Watch.

"Ken?" Si was looking at him oddly.
Robbie tutted over the rim of his beer glass. "Kenny,

man, you look pale."

"Not enough natural light." Si nodded as if he had a

medical degree rather than a fifty yards swimming
certificate at home. "You need to find a guy who likes the
outdoor life. Walking. Jogging. Cycling...."

All three of them traded wary glances.
"Okay," Simon quickly amended. "Maybe not cycling.

Lycra chafe isn't a good look on anyone. Ollie plays
football, you know. In a proper league. I'm sure he could
introduce you to the team."

"Works for me," Robbie muttered.
Simon frowned. "For Ken, that is."

"You mean for me, the guy who needs to get out

more?"  Ken  shook  his  head  at  Si's  doggedness  and
Robbie's  lechery.  "Sometimes  you  lot  are  worse  than  my
mother.  I'm  fine,  you  know. And  I  know  it's  a  weird  job,
but it's just for the summer." And then it'd all be over, he'd
go  back  on  campus,  and  his  Waiter  fascination  would
become  an  embarrassing  but  distant  memory.  The  pub
jukebox in the background chose that moment to shift to a
popular  love  ballad. Extraordinary  how  potent  cheap
music is.

"Ken?" Simon gave a yelp. Ken's glass had tilted

awkwardly in his hand, and beer splashed over Simon's
new jeans. Ken apologised quickly and righted his beer.
With an effort, he pulled his mind back to the pub and his
friends.

He knew his dating career wasn't the most glorious.

There'd been his serious crush on Jimmy Evans in school,
and  maybe  yes,  he'd  never  quite  got  over  that  early,
unrequited love. Jimmy had been the benchmark for every
potential  boyfriend  since--a  gifted  sportsman,  good  sense
of  humour,  excellent  taste  in  music,  generous,  helpful,  a
good mate to his peers, cute arse in football shorts...  Ken
spluttered over his beer, and dragged his mind back to his
mental  catalogue.  He'd  had  a  summer  fling  in  Cornwall
with  a  surfer  called  Wave--no,  seriously,  that  was  what
everyone  called  him--and  a  couple  of  brief  relationships
with guys at Uni in the first year. No one he'd take home to

the family yet.

"What does he look like nowadays?" he asked, rather

recklessly. Go ahead, punk. Make my day.

Simon looked startled. "Who?"
"Ollie Robinson." Ken knew he was blushing because

the ever-obvious Robbie grinned and flapped a hand in
front of his face as if fanning the heat.

Simon raised an eyebrow. "Slimmer. Well-dressed.

Smart specs--"

"He wears glasses?"
"Sometimes. But he has contacts, too, apparently."
"Is he..." How ridiculous did this sound? "...still

blond?"

Simon laughed. "What the hell? Yes! Or...well, no. I

suppose it's darker than I remember. Why, have you got
something against blonds?"

"Of course not. I just wondered. You know." Ken

couldn't think of anything else to quiz Si about without
either looking a complete tosser, or admitting his secret
stalking.

Robbie was still grinning. "You got eyes on someone,

Kenny? Your bug eyes?"

"His what?" Si said.
"Those multi screens he sits in front of for hours,

right? Like an insect's eyes. Blimey, Si, if I have to spell
out science to flaky art students one more time--"

"Yeah? Like the science of setting fire to your jeans

that time? They featured it front page of the Uni magazine."

"That was a bloody controlled experiment--"
"Controlled by a bloody monkey, more like, and you

have the nerve to slag off art students--"

"Maybe we could meet," Ken said quietly into the

background  of  Si  and  Robbie  bickering.  However,  they
heard  him  clearly  enough.  They  both  immediately  shut  up
and  swivelled  in  their  chairs  to  face  him.  Ken  felt  very
awkward,  but  he'd  committed  now.  "Just  to  catch  up  on
old times. No guarantee we'll get on, you know?"

"Sure," Robbie said.
"I know," Simon said, with an uncharitable smirk.
Robbie stood to get another round of drinks. "Want to

get him over here tonight?" he asked, loudly.

Ken winced at everyone around them hearing his

business. "I don't think--"

Si thrust his mobile under Ken's nose. "Would you like

to call him?"

"Shit, Si." Ken shook his head, wearily. "No."
"Okay.

Say Hello, Dolly," Simon said with a

mischievous roll of the eyes. "I'll call him. See if he wants
to come out and meet us for a drink." He leaped up from
his seat and went outside the pub where there'd be less
distracting background noise for a phone call.

"Si seems pretty keen," Robbie said, aimlessly. "It's

Ollie this, Ollie that with him."

Ken sighed and concentrated on his beer. Things were

going too fast and too weird for him, but...what would be,
would  be.  He  had  to  admit  a  frisson  of  excitement  at  the
thought  of  meeting  Ollie  Robinson.  No,  to  be  honest,  that
wasn't really it. He wanted to meet Ollie but only to see if
he  was  the  mystery  Waiter.  Oh,  what  a  tangled  web  we
weave.

Simon pushed back through a group of student drinkers

behind their table and thudded back down on his seat. "He
can't make it tonight. And he's working tomorrow night as
well. I arranged to meet him here at the pub on Wednesday
evening."

"That's fine for Ken," Robbie said.
Ken thumped him half-angrily on the arm. "I can

answer for myself, you berk. Yes, it's fine. I'm...well, I'm
working tomorrow night as well."

"That's a happy coincidence," Si said.
Ken just nodded in agreement, not trusting a reply. You

have no idea.

* * * *

Tuesday night, Ken arrived for work in clean, pressed

trousers and his smartest dress shirt. Suzie turned as he
strode into the viewing room and dropped his backpack on
to a spare space on the desktop. "My God, have you been
for an interview before coming here?"

Ken laughed and flushed. "No such luck. This is too

much, isn't it?" He knew he'd spent an hour in his room,
deciding which shirt to wear from his meagre collection,

and then he'd only just stopped short of adding a tie. What
was he thinking? That the camera would suddenly become
a two-way connection? But tonight he'd wanted to look his
best, God knows why.

She laughed, too, shaking her head. "No one's here to

see,  Ken, so wear what you like. You look good, and it's
nice  to  see  men  making  an  effort.  My  brother  never
changes  out  of  paint-splattered  sweatpants."  Suzie's
brother was a plasterer and decorator, and her ever trusty
babysitter  of  an  evening.  Ken  chatted  to  her  about  her
youngest,  toddler  son  for  a  while,  then  she  shrugged  into
her coat and left the office.

Ken drank his coffee, ate a sandwich. He watched a

car  stall  on  the  road  outside  the  Moroccan  café,  and  the
female driver flag down another motorist for a jump start.
It took her and the young male driver a long time to get her
car  started  again,  during  which  time  Ken  saw  them
laughing,  and  eventually  exchange  phone  numbers.  A
woman hurrying out of the newsagents tripped on the step
and dropped her bag of groceries. The owner's wife--with
the  same  style  of  shiny  trousers  but  apparently  not  the
same  scratching  habit--came  rushing  out  to  help  her.
Behind the fried chicken fast food outlet, two foxes had a
snarling  confrontation  over  the  remnants  found  in  a
discarded bargain bucket.

Nothing else was happening.
Ken chewed some gum and read a few pages of his

book,  until  he  realised  he'd  skimmed  the  same  paragraph
four  times.  He  played  a  drawing  game  on  his  phone  with
Joe  until  Joe  texted  him  to  complain  Ken  wasn't  bloody
concentrating  and  he  was  going  back  to  Facebook.  Joe
made  it  abundantly  clear  that  was  hugely  more  exciting
than  Ken's current situation, and to be honest,  Ken had to
agree with him. He wondered about calling Robbie or Si,
but he wasn't really meant to spend time on personal calls,
in  case...well,  in  case  of  the  ballistic  missile,  he
supposed.

And then Waiter came out the back door of the

restaurant.

Ken nearly choked on his gum as he straightened up

quickly in his chair. If he'd cared, he'd have been alarmed
at how quickly his heartbeat sped up. The man walked
quickly and purposefully toward the hidden corner of the
yard. Only a few minutes of break left? Or was he trying to
keep away from the cameras? Or...

Waiter paused, just before he moved out of camera

range.  Ken  only  had  a  view  of  his  back  by  this  time,  but
Waiter  had  shoved  his  hands  in  his  trouser  pockets,  and
the way it tightened the fabric over  Waiter's arse...  Well,
Ken wasn't complaining.

Or was this another tease?
Whatever the reason for the sexy view, Ken's groin

was definitely interested in the effect. His cock warmed
the inside of his boxers as it filled out. Ken couldn't resist

leaning  his  palm  on  his  lap,  feeling  the  hardening  length,
wanting  to  slip  open  his  zip  and  slide  his  hand  in  to
relieve  the  ache  all  through  his  lower  body. Shit.  He
flushed,  despite  the  fact  there  was  no  one  to  see  his
embarrassment. But jerking off was pretty much at the top
of the list of things he shouldn't be doing on the job, much
higher up than making private calls or burying his nose in
another doorstop volume of Game of Thrones.

Waiter shuffled about, his back half in view, and his

head  turned  away.  His  hands  were  hidden  in  front  of  his
body and he leaned to one side, resting his weight against
the  side  of  the  nearest  bin.  His  stance  was  for  all  the
world  like  a  casual  smoker,  snatching  a  few  moments'
relaxation.  But  there  was  no  telltale  trail  of  smoke  rising
up. What was he doing? For a brief moment, he turned his
head  again,  back  toward  the  restaurant--and  Ken's  view.
Ken found himself leaning into the screen, peering to see if
he  recognised  the  grainy  features.  Was  that  a  pair  of
glasses,  or  just  a  glint  in  the  man's  eyes?  Ken  cursed  the
poor  quality  of  that  TV  for  probably  the  nine  millionth
time.

Something glimmered on the screen, just above

Waiter's chin. Ken's eyes hurt from squinting. Had he just
wet  his  lips?  Ken  could  see  the  flicker  of  a  tongue,  the
movement  of  Waiter's  hand  as  he  lifted  his  fingers  to  his
mouth.  He  was  licking  his  fingers  again.  Maybe  he'd  just
had another of those cruelly sticky snacks. Ken's groin was

aching again. He reckoned he must have been really
wicked in a previous life--maybe two lives--to deserve
torture like this. Pity he couldn't remember enjoying any of
it.

Waiter's hand left his mouth and hovered around his

waist.  He'd  turned  his  head  away  from  the  camera  again,
but  his  hips  had  twisted  back  toward  it.  Slim  hips,  long
legs  with  a  muscular  look.  Ken  wondered  if  Ollie
Robinson  had  ever  been  that  tall.  Could  a  guy  add  six
inches to his height in two years? Ken's email was plagued
by plenty of spam offering three to eight inches in the lap
area, but rarely in leg length.

Waiter's hand patted almost aimlessly at the front of

his trousers.  He palmed the shape there, rubbing it gently
up  and  down.  He  must  be  touching  his  dick,  no  question.
Wrapping  his  fingers  around  the  width  of  it,  feeling  the
thickness.  Ken  moistened  his  own  lips  and  wished  he'd
brought a bottle of water with him tonight. If he didn't use
it for the dryness in his mouth, he could douse his growing
temperature by pouring it over his groin. Then worry later
about how to explain it to Charlie when he arrived to take
over.  Meanwhile,  Waiter  had  shifted  his  legs  slightly
wider  apart,  steadying  his  weight  between  them.  He  bent
his elbow and his hand dived down into... Ken gaped. Into
his trousers. Inside. Downward. Deep downward. Even if
Ken  didn't  have  a  full  view  of  the  man's  body,  there  was
no  ignoring  that  move.  No  young  man  of  any  level  of

sexual self-awareness could mistake that pastime. And as
Ken  watched,  waiting  for  his  brain  to  catch  up  with  the
truth from his eyes, Waiter started to move his hand up and
down  again--but  this  time  from  down  inside  his  clothes.
His  back  bowed  and  his  shoulders  stiffened  against  the
bin.  His  knees  pumped  very  gently  as  his  hips  thrust  in
time with his hand.

Oh my fucking God. Ken found his own hand in his

lap.  His  gaze  was  fixed  on  the  screen,  but  he  had  no
trouble  finding  the  button  and  zip  by  touch,  and  releasing
them  quickly.  The  relief  of  grasping  his  erection  was
astonishing.  As  Waiter's  body  jerked  in  the  dark,  so  did
Ken's  in  the  dimmed  light  of  the  security  room. I've  a
feeling  we're  not  in  Kansas  anymore.  He  tried  to  be
quiet,  partly  because  the  sensible  side  of  his  brain  was
appalled at what he was doing and was warning him about
imminent  discovery,  but  also  partly  because  Waiter's
pleasure  was  all  happening  in  silence,  too.  It  was
solidarity.  Lust  and  need  and  relief  and  a  weird  kind  of
communion, even though there was no way he knew... Shut
the  hell  up,  brain!  Ken  finally  surrendered  trying  to  be
logical or rational, and just tightened his grip on his cock.
He  prayed  his  concentration  would  hold  out  long  enough
to  watch  Waiter  to  the  end.  His  head  was  already
swimming,  and  tears  of  excitement  had  wet  his  lashes,
misting his view.

Waiter started to sag, leaning more heavily against the

bin. If  he  sinks  to  his  knees...  Ken  didn't  dare  finish  the
thought.  His  throat  was  tight  and  his  palms  sticky.  They
slid  up  and  down  his  cock  with  a  terrible,  thrilling  ease.
He  hadn't  felt  this  weird  mix  of  nervousness  and
excitement  since  he  first  saw  Jimmy  Evans  in  his  school
cricket whites, and had to cover his lap with his own cap
to  hide  his  sudden,  sweetly  painful  erection.  His  panting
was getting embarrassingly loud, but he couldn't have torn
his  gaze  from  that  particular  screen,  even  if  an  escaped
rhino  had  burst  through  the  shutters  of  the  chemist  at  the
other end of the shopping corridor, and started guzzling the
stock of diet chocolate.

Waiter gave a visible shudder. On the CCTV, the

middle of the picture rippled and went briefly out of focus.
Ken almost yelped aloud. Looked like Waiter was close to
coming.  So  was  Ken.  So, so  close. Anything  can  happen
in  the  next  half  hour!  He  leaned  his  free  arm  on  the
desktop  to  help  balance  himself  as  he  pumped  himself
though his damp, aching fist. He'd have to give up this job.
It  wasn't  good  for  his  nerves.  Or  his  libido. And  he  was
worried he was turning into a pervert.

For a second, he stilled. His heart stuttered with

shame, even as it thumped with excitement. Was he really
a pervert? Jerking off with a guy on a screen, when neither
of them knew the other was doing the same? Ken was like
that lunatic in the movie, Sliver. He'd watched it with Joe,
years ago. Joe had been lusting openly over Sharon Stone,

while  Ken  found  himself  waiting  impatiently  for  the  next
time  Tom  Berenger came on screen.  But the theme was a
guy  watching  someone  through  CCTV,  without  their
knowledge  or  permission.  What  if  Waiter  found  out  Ken
was watching him?

Before Ken could examine this confusion properly, his

gaze  was  caught  again.  Waiter  had  lifted  another  inch  on
his  toes  and  his  shoulders  were  stretched  back,  as  if
drawing out his ecstasy. His whole body jerked once, then
again,  and  then  he  lowered  back  into  his  normal  stance.
The  screen  shivered  momentarily  out  of  focus  again,  but
his  head  had  turned  back  toward  the  camera.  As  the
picture  settled  again,  Ken  caught  a  glimpse  of  his  mouth,
open in what looked like a gasp, and his eyes like bright,
glittering beads in among the grey shadows.

And then he grinned and winked again at the camera.
Ken groaned and came, spilling hot and wet all over

his clenched fist and between his fingers. The chair rocked
on  its  wonky  wheels,  and  caught  the  edge  of  the  desk,
spinning  the  coffee  cup  off  onto  the  floor.  Ken's  head
dropped, his chin to his chest, as he wheezed and tried to
steady  his  breath.  His  heart  was  beating  too  fast  and  the
remains of his coffee had splashed over his shoes. And he
didn't  care  one  tiny,  single,  bloody,  heart-wrenching  iota.
But he did feel a sudden, irrational anger at Waiter--at this
man,  hiding  in  shadows,  playing  with  himself,  playing
with Ken.  Did  he  have  any  idea  who  was  watching  him?

Did he care? Did he know what he was doing to Ken?

It was unfair. Yet Ken had brought it on himself, he

knew  that.  He  was  the  one  spying,  using  the  view  for  his
own  excitement. Even  if  the  guy  seems  to  ask  for  it?
Yeah,  he  told  himself  fiercely,  his  skin  still  tingling  with
the blessed shock of climax. The guilt was all Ken's fault.
"Just what do you think you're doing, Dave?"

He reached for the box of cheap tissues that Charlie

had left last week, when he was sickening for a cold. Ken
couldn't help but wonder what exactly he was sickening
for?

* * * *

Wednesday night loomed like some kind of ominous

storm cloud, but instead of threatening rain, it
threatened...what? Ken wasn't all together sure. The
horror. The horror.

He was still at home when Si texted him to ask where

the hell was he, they were all waiting for him, plus Robbie
was already two drinks ahead of them all.  Ken rolled his
eyes and turned off his phone. He tried three or four shirts
before  he  found  one  that  felt  right,  a  balance  between
smart,  dress-to-impress,  and  yet  normal  enough  to  stave
off  Robbie's  hoots  of  derision.  He  swept  his  hair  back,
then smoothed it down over his forehead, but neither style
looked  right.  He  had  a  dark  lock  that  curled  out  from  his
parting in an awkward direction, and it never lay flat. He
thought  his  eyes  were  too  small  and  there  were  bags

underneath  them  from  his  late  night  shifts. And  there  was
that irritating spot on the outer edge of his cheekbone, as in
we're  not  supposed  to  talk  about  the  bloody  mole,  but
there's  a  bloody  mole  winking  me  in  the  face--  Ken
frowned and stepped away from the bathroom mirror. For
God's  sake.  He  was  never  going  to  be  underwear  model
material,  was  he?  And  it  was  just  a  drink  down  the  pub
with  his  mates. Yeah,  right.  He  pulled  on  his  coat  and
hurried  out  of  the  house  before  he  was  distracted  into
worrying about anything else.

The pub was already crowded when he got there, even

though it was midweek. Sometimes they had an open mike
night  on  Wednesdays,  and  a  crowd  from  the  University
often attended. Robbie liked to grumble about flaky music
students as much as flaky arts ones, but he always arrived
early  to  grab  a  table  near  the  small  stage.  Ken  wriggled
his  way  through  chatting  and  laughing  customers,  and
spotted Robbie and Simon on his way to the bar. Si waved
over to him, beckoning for him to hurry up and join them.
There were two other men sitting at the table, both of them
with their back to Ken. He tried to see who they were, but
then  a  large  man  with  a  red  face  and  spiky  hair  pushed
past with a tray full of pints, obscuring Ken's view. By the
time  the  man  had  cleared  out  of  Ken's  way,  the  unknown
bloke who'd been sitting the farthest from Simon had gone
off  somewhere,  and  the  other  had  turned  toward  Si  and
was leaning forward over his glass so Ken could only see

the top of his head. Which looked pretty blond to him--

"Mate?" The barman waved a hand in front of Ken's

face. "You drinking or holding up the bar?"

Ken apologised for daydreaming and ordered a drink

for  himself.  He'd  join  in  the  next  round  as  soon  as  he'd
settled in. He made his way over to the table. Over on the
stage,  a  young  female  singer/songwriter  was  tapping  the
microphone  nervously.  Funny  thing  was,  Ken  felt  a  bit
nervous himself, and he wasn't a performer.

"About bloody time," Robbie announced in his best

booming voice, as Ken approached. "Marta's bloody
magnificent, you need to hear her set."

"Ken, sit there," Simon said, peremptorily, waving at

the now empty seat on the other side of the new--yes,
definitely blond--man at his side. "And say hi to Ollie."

As the man sitting beside Simon started to turn toward

him,  Ken  realised  he  was  holding  his  breath.  He  waited
for  the  bolt  from  the  blue.  The  emotional  blow  right
between  the  eyes.  He'd  always  imagined  this  kind  of
moment,  when  the  wide-screen  movie  shot  suddenly
shrinks  to  a  single,  eye-sized  portrait  of  one  person,  one
face, one smile, one delighted shock of recognition--

With an equally vivid shock, but with far less delight,

he realised it wasn't going to be that moment. Luke, I am
your father.

"Hi, Ken. Remember me?" Ollie Robinson grinned up

at him, the lights glinting off his very fashionable glasses,

his  clear-skinned  face  shining  a  little  with  sweat  and  his
well-rounded  body  clothed  in  a  pink-striped  sweater  and
designer  jeans.  No  lean,  lithe  body.  No  dark  hair,
glittering  eyes,  and  mischief  in  the  smile.  No  black  work
trousers stretched tight over a muscled arse...

Ken landed heavily on the chair. "Hi, Ollie. Of course

I do."

"No he doesn't," Robbie announced gleefully.
"I told you Ollie had changed," Simon said. "For the

better, sorry," he added quickly, glancing at Ollie in
alarm.

Ollie just laughed. "Kind of you to say so, Si. I was a

hell of a lump at school, wasn't I? Not that I ever expected
to look as good as you."

Simon flushed deeply and laughed much too loudly.

Ken caught Robbie's gaze and they both raised their
eyebrows.

"So, Ollie," Robbie said. "Where are you working?"
"At the Thai Pin," Ollie said, smiling broadly.

"Ludicrous name, isn't it? Half the kitchen staff aren't Thai
at  all,  though  they  don't  let  me  cook,  of  course.  But  I've
been helping out on the business side of things instead--I'm
putting  in  a  new  network  for  them  next  week,  with  full
accounting  software.  It's  an  area  I'm  interested  in,  career
wise."

"Fascinating," Simon said, eyes wide.
"It's my shout," Robbie said, grinning at the pair of

them. He hauled himself up out of his chair, bumping into a
couple of chatting women at the next table. He had a
frustrating few moments while he disentangled his ankle
from one of their handbags, then he set out for the bar.

Oh God. Ollie and Si were yammering on about

school days, the essential ingredients of Thai food, which
of the two clubs in town won on style points, and whether
Big Brother really had exhausted itself for good. Ken was
thankful he could be relatively quiet for a moment. He felt
like he was in a small, squashed bubble in the middle of
the noisy pub. The customers were lively, the music was
great but loud, and he was in the middle of what promised
to be a really embarrassing situation. All he could do was
withdraw for a moment and regroup.

The disappointment had been like a blow. But if he

really  thought  seriously  about  it,  what  had  been  the
chances that the man he was being set up with was actually
the  man  he wanted?  Million  to  one  chance.  Well,  maybe
not  a  million,  because  Ollie  was  local  like  the  rest  of
them,  he  knew  them  from  school,  he  had  a  job  at  a
restaurant... But still pretty huge odds. And Ken had taken
those  coincidences,  added  them  together  and  made  the
million odds work in his favour.

Robbie nudged up on the other side of him with the

drinks. Ken handed them around the table, earning another
warm grin from Ollie. But it was Robbie who leaned in to
chat to him.

"He's not bad, is he?"
"Ollie? No, I mean, yes. He seems like a good bloke."
Robbie laughed, though not as heartily as usual. "Not

the geeky tosser he was in school, anyway. He says his
flatmate in Oxford has a couple of free tickets for that
science exhibition at the Ashmolean, he'll be happy to let
me have them. Steve says he'd like to go."

"Look, Robbie--"
"I know, I know, Steve and I broke up, right? But to be

honest,  Ken,  I  think  there's  a  chance  we'll  give  it  another
try. He was...you know...my first and everything." Robbie
shifted  awkwardly  on  his  chair,  oblivious  to  Ken's  own
distress.  "It's  not  like  we're  student  and  tutor  anymore,
there's no reason we shouldn't get off together. Got a lot in
common.  And  we  know  where  the  fuck  we  went  wrong
first  time  around,  right?  He  was  a  tosser,  I  was  a  tosser,
both  of  us  were  total  bloody..."  Words  temporarily
seemed to fail  Robbie.  Maybe he was trying to think of a
more romantic term for a tosser.

"No, that's not what I meant," Ken said. "You can go

out with anyone you like."

"Yeah? I know we made a bloody melodrama of the

whole break-up scene. Him up-ending that pint over my
head. Me falling over that chair and smashing it. And I did
apologise for you getting in the way of that punch, didn't
I?"

"Yes," Ken said, drily. "Several times. But if you want

to go again, mine's a double tequila, thanks."

Robbie snorted with laughter. "But seriously, what do

you think? You don't think I'm a--"

"Tosser?" Ken laughed. "You like him, you always

did. Go for it. But that's not what I wanted to talk about."

"Yeah? What's up?"
But Ken never got the chance to say.
"Ken!" Simon slapped him on the shoulder. "Ollie and

I are going to Club Retro for their 80s night, anyone else
want to come?"

"Another night, kids," Robbie said. "I'm only here for a

while. I've got things to see, people to do." He was making
serious inroads into his pint, apparently keen to go and
find Steve and revive their romance as soon as possible.

"Me neither, thanks," Ken said. "I'll stay here for a bit,

too, listen to the music." Too bad if Si was annoyed with
him  not  following  through  with  Ollie,  but  you  couldn't
force  these  things,  could  you? And  Ken  couldn't  help  but
notice  that  Si  seemed  to  have  dropped  his  ideas  of
matching up Ken, and replaced them with a healthy interest
in Ollie himself.

"Then I hope you two don't mind keeping my friend

company  for  a  while,"  Ollie  said,  cheerfully.  "He's  a
fellow  serf  from  the  restaurant  trade.  We  used  the  same
catering  agency  for  a  summer  job. And  as  we  were  both
off duty tonight and in need of a drink, I said he could mix
in with us for a while. Is that okay?"

"Not like we bloody bite," Robbie muttered.
"Much," Simon added, and flushed again when Ollie

laughed appreciatively.

"He's not into 80s music, I must admit, he prefers this

kind of live acoustic stuff. Like you, Ken."

"Sure. Um...Where is he?"
Ollie gave a dismissive wave. He was keen to get

going. "He left his coat in my car, had to go back and fetch
it. I think--yes, there he is, just come back into the pub. I'll
collect my keys off him as we leave. Maybe see you all at
the club later if you change your mind?" Ollie grabbed up
his jacket, and nodded a distracted goodbye to Ken and
Robbie. "I think you'll probably remember him from
school. Hang on, Si, yes, I'm coming."

Simon and Ollie sank into the crowd of customers

around  the  stage,  finding  a  route  through  to  the  exit.  Ken
couldn't  see  the  car  keys  exchange  at  the  door,  but  he'd
barely  had  time  to  think  about  turning  back  to  watch  the
next  singer,  when  a  young  man  approached  from  the
direction of the bar, carrying a half full pint and an armful
of crisp packets.

I think you'll probably remember him from school.
Ken stared. He put his own glass on to the table with

exaggerated care, because he thought it may fall through
his nerveless fingers.

"It's Jimmy! Jimmy Evans." Robbie whistled through

his teeth and clapped the man on the shoulder. "God,

haven't seen you for bloody years. Where have you been?"

Jimmy Evans grinned, showing a healthy set of white

teeth.  He  ran  a  hand  through  his  thick  dark  hair,  and  his
sparkling  eyes  caught  the  spotlight  from  the  stage.  "I've
been in the  States, working my way as a bartender.  Went
there  almost  straight  from  school.  Always  knew  I  wasn't
going to be an academic, eh?"

Robbie laughed. He and Jimmy had been a couple of

the  most  frequent  visitors  to  detention  for  unfinished
homework.  They'd  both  preferred  sport  to  study  in  any
kind  of  poll.  "Sounds  bloody  marvellous.  How  long  are
you back in town?"

Jimmy shrugged. For the first time he looked

awkward. "Dad's dementia is much worse and he's getting
frail,  so  I'm  back  permanently  for  the  time  being.  My
sister's off to  Uni herself soon, and my brother can't cope
on his own.  I met  Ollie in town and he recommended the
catering agency for getting a job.  Now  I'm working at the
bistro, by the games store, you know it?"

Ken couldn't help slopping some beer on the table. His

hand was shaking of its own accord.

"Yeah, I know it." Robbie was happily oblivious of

Ken's nerves. "Well, you look bloody good on it. Still
working out?"

Jimmy grinned and flushed. He stretched his lean body

a little self-consciously. "Just working hard. I played some
sport while I was away, but I haven't had time to set

anything up here. I'm just settling in at home and looking
after Dad."

Robbie nodded, then tipped and drained his beer.

"Well, I'm off to see an ex about some sex, if you'll pardon
the phrase. You'll have to make do with the goldfish here."

Jimmy's gaze darted to Ken's face then away again.

His grin faded to a gentle smile.

Ken frowned at Robbie. "Do you mean me?"
Robbie laughed loudly. "Ken, you look like someone

disconnected your jaw. Gaping away like you've seen a
ghost."

"Leave it," Ken said. His mouth felt dry. He couldn't

mistake the look of mischief on Robbie's face.

"Works for me," Robbie said as he turned away to

leave the pub, still laughing.

* * * *

Things were awkward for a few moments. The female

singer  had  given  way  to  a  male  combo  whose  harmonies
didn't  really  work  well  enough,  but  that  didn't  stop  them
from  trying  the  whole  back  catalogue  of  the  Beatles--the
psychedelic  years.  Ken  stared  down  at  his  pint--the  very
last place he wanted to be looking, but the only one he felt
was safe.

Jimmy cleared his throat. "Well," he said, finally.

"Here we are."

Ken took a sneaky look at him out of the corner of his

eye. Jimmy was exactly the same as he remembered--in all

the  best  ways.  He  was  still  good-looking  in  a  rangy,
relaxed  way.  At  least,  he  was  to  Ken.  Jimmy  had  never
been one to follow fashion or worry about his looks.  But
whether  it  was  because  he'd  always  been  good  at  sports,
or  from  a  natural  confidence,  he  always  looked  perfectly
comfortable  with  his  own  body.  It  had  been  that  way  all
through the gangly teenage years of spots and hairiness and
limbs  seeming  to  grow  at  the  wrong  rates.  Jimmy  had
always  been  very  laid  back,  whatever  happened.  It  was
charming.  It  gave  him  his  own  kind  of  charisma.  Or  was
Ken projecting his school-day crush on to the grown man?

Jimmy had flopped down on the seat beside Ken, and

his  knee  was  pressing  against  Ken's  under  the  table.  Ken
took  a  deep  swallow  of  his  beer  and  knew  he  couldn't
have said if the combo on stage had been playing Sergeant
Pepper  or  Black  Sabbath.  Every  nerve  he  possessed  was
alive to the other man.

"Okay." Ken decided he might as well be the one to

poke the elephant awake--the one in the room, that was.
"So it's been you in the yard behind the bistro." He let his
voice lift at the end as if he were asking a question, but
let's face it, they both knew the answer.

Jimmy nodded.
"And you know I've been watching you."
Jimmy Evans--aka Waiter--smiled. It wasn't a smirk

like Si's, or Robbie's hearty grin. It was a smile of
pleasure and interest and hardly any embarrassment. Ken

felt a warm shiver through his body from neck to toes,
with an extra rest stop at the groin area.

"Yeah, I know you have. And you know I've been..."
Ken raised an eyebrow.
Jimmy had the grace to blush, even as he burst out

laughing. "I'm sorry, Ken. Was it really gross?"

Hell, no. "It was risky," Ken said. "I'm not on the

cameras every night, you know."

Jimmy's eyes glittered, a look that Ken would have

recognised by now in complete darkness, let alone a
crowded pub. "Not so risky. Ollie's been talking about you
and your mates ever since he met up again with Si. He
filled me in on what you were all doing."

"Including my shifts? How did he know--" The

answer--Simon--came to Ken's mind, even as he asked.
"So, you were..." What could he say? What was this all
about? "Contacting us?"

"You," Jimmy said, quickly. "I was just...well.

Specifically you." He rubbed his palm a couple of times
on the table. His fingers strayed closer to Ken's hand, as if
he wanted to take hold of it but wasn't sure what reception
he'd get. "I know I've been away, and I wasn't sure what
the situation was like back here."

"Situation?"
Jimmy pursed his lips. "You know. If you

were...seeing someone."

Ken didn't reply but it was as if someone had turned up

his internal central heating.

"Ollie said he was looking up old school friends, but I

didn't know who was still knocking around with who, or if
you'd remember me. So I thought I'd test out the water
first."

"Through CCTV? Wasn't that a bit odd?" The whole

thing had been bloody bizarre. "You already had Ollie's
number. What's wrong with arranging a pizza and a beer
with us all like anyone else would do?"

"Shit." Jimmy scowled. "Don't make me feel an arse. I

wasn't interested in Ollie or Simon."

"I don't know what you--"
"You, Ken. I was hoping to get in contact with you. It

was all...just for you."

"Me." Ken swallowed. His mouth seemed very dry.

Yippee-ki-yay,

motherfucker! His self-esteem was

mounting  in  a  very  satisfactory  way,  even  if  he  couldn't
help  wondering  what  the  hell  would  have  happened  if
Suzie  had  been  on  duty  instead  of  him,  the  night  Waiter
slid  his  hand  down  the  front  of  his  trousers  and  started
playing with himself.

"Look, I was going to confess. It was just a joke to

start with," Jimmy said. "I...is that why you're smiling?"

Ken bit his lip. "Ignore me." He met Jimmy's gaze fully

now. Jimmy had a slight tan, and Ken wondered where in
America he'd been bartending. His memory conjured up
the picture of Tom Cruise in Cocktail bouncing the spirit

bottles  behind  the  bar,  then  it  morphed  into  Jimmy,
grinning  at  everyone--maybe  at  Ken  specifically?--after
cricket  each  week.  Ken  felt  very  flustered,  and  it  wasn't
just  because  the  pub  was  getting  very  crowded.  "So,
Jimmy,"  he  said,  thinking  it  was  his  turn  to  do  some
teasing.  "It  was  a  hell  of  an  ice  breaker.  You're  into  the
whole exhibitionism thing in a big way now?"

Jimmy was startled. "No! I mean...yes. Maybe. It may

have been a laugh at the beginning, but then I got a real
buzz, knowing you'd be watching me--" He caught sight of
the look on Ken's face and broke into laughter. "Joke.
Yeah, right, I know. What about you?"

Tell us about it, Janet.
"Me?"
"What did you think?" Jimmy persisted. There was a

twinkle of mischief back in his eye.

"I felt...embarrassed. Excited." A perve, Ken thought,

but didn't say. It made him smile now rather than
horrifying him. A very amateur perve, really.

"I always liked you, you know." Jimmy groaned.

"Sorry. That's the most disgusting corn, isn't it? But I did.
At school, especially in cricket training. Your trousers
were too bloody tight."

"God." Ken shook his head, mortified. "Mum insisted I

got another year out of them, it wasn't like I could wear
them out anywhere else--"

"They were really hot," Jimmy said, quietly. "I was

trying to keep the whole gay thing quiet at first, then I
started getting a boner every session."

Ken opened his mouth to confess the same, caught

Jimmy's questioning look, and they both laughed.

"I came out properly then," Jimmy said. "Wasn't going

to spend the end of my school career pretending I was
something else. I joined the LGBT Club and just hoped
you would, too."

"I did."
Jimmy nodded. "You did. And the boner got much

more frequent."

Ken laughed again. "But why didn't you say

something? Didn't you wonder why I was always the last
one to leave the changing room?"

"And I was the second last?" Jimmy shook his head.

"God,  I  was  thick  as  a  brick  then,  wasn't  I?  I  just  didn't
know how those things went.  I'd had the piss taken out of
me for years about not going out with girls. I wasn't about
to  get  slapped  down  for  chasing  after  a  boy."  He  looked
across  at  Ken  with  a  rueful  expression.  "My  time  away
gave me a chance to grow up.  That's when  I realised you
probably had been interested, and I'd...missed my chance."

"Bloody hell." Ken sighed. "We're as bad as each

other. I didn't know what to do either. Just moped around
places where I'd catch sight of you. Robbie mocked me
about it for years. Still does, actually, even now we've left
school."

"And then I went abroad."
"Yes," Ken said. They were quiet for a moment,

though  the  noise  in  the  pub  swelled  around  them.  He
drained  his  pint,  wondering  whether  to  offer  another,  or
suggest  they  moved  on  somewhere  else.  When  he  turned
back to face Jimmy, they both started talking together.

"Look, Jimmy, you want to go and get something to

eat--"

"Look, Ken, what about a second chance--"
Ken laughed and Jimmy joined in. Ken enjoyed seeing

that broad grin again, the way Jimmy's nose crinkled when
he  laughed,  the  way  he  threw  his  head  back.  In  the
background,  Ken heard the set change again, for a combo
playing  heavy  reggae  music.  He  nudged  Jimmy's  arm.
"Let's go."

They grabbed their coats and squeezed out of the now

crowded pub onto the quieter and cooler pavement.  They
went for a late night kebab and sat on a park bench by the
riverside  to  eat  it.  The  evening  was  warm  enough,  and
Ken was pleased it gave them the chance to chat. He was
fascinated  to  hear  about  Jimmy's  time  in  the  USA,  and
didn't  feel  his  stories  of  life  in  the  hometown  bore  any
comparison, but Jimmy listened intently. Ken chatted about
his  family,  about  the  CCTV  job  and  his  fellow  watchers,
about  his  plans  for  college  and  the  future.  Jimmy  asked
questions,  and  laughed  at  all  the  right  places.  Yes,  Ken
thought, a very good sense of humour, and kind with it. My

mama always said, life was like a box of chocolates. You
never know what you gonna get.

"You know Ollie's no longer in the market for a blind

date?" Jimmy said, through a mouthful of salad.

"I guessed as much from the way Si was hanging on his

every word. Are they an item now?"

Jimmy chuckled. "Yeah, or soon will be. They were

thick as thieves from the minute they met up again. It was
only a matter of time before they realised they were hot for
each other, too. I was watching them as they left the pub
tonight, heads together, giggling and nudging up against
each other. It wasn't so much a case of get a room, as get a
room, bed and matching duvet and pillowcases. They're a
couple, all right."

Ken liked the way Jimmy joked about their friends, but

in a gentle, witty way. "Hopefully it'll keep Si off my back
with his matchmaking now."

Jimmy looked at him sideways, his lids heavy like they

had been on camera. "Are you sorry?"

"Stop fishing," Ken retorted. After all, wasn't he meant

to play harder to get? But as Jimmy's hand rested briefly
on his, he knew he wasn't going to bother with that.

It wasn't a tremendously romantic start to a date that

had been two years in the fermenting, but Ken didn't think
he minded. There was a pub along the towpath and Ken
could hear some students playing casual football and
calling to each other on the grass outside. The air was still

and cool, with music in the distance from the pub, the lap
of  water  and  occasional  quack  as  the  ducks  gathered
against the bank for the night, and the rhythmic swoosh of
traffic  on  the  other  side  of  the  river.  Jimmy's  voice  was
attractive, his laugh infectious. They'd bought some cans of
beer from the late-night supermarket, and opened a couple
of  them  to  toast  the  kebab. Like  a  couple  of  old  winos,
Ken  protested.  Jimmy  just  kept  grinning.  And  when  he
reached  over  to  wipe  some  froth  off  Ken's  top  lip,  Ken
met the distance between them and kissed him.

Jimmy's tongue was hot and eager and Ken let it into

his mouth just as enthusiastically. The bench they'd chosen
was a secluded one, just off the main pedestrian path. No
one  was  passing  them  at  this  time  of  night,  as  the
streetlights  were  more  frequent  farther  along  the
riverbank,  and  they  couldn't  be  overlooked  from  the  pub.
Ken  wriggled  into  a  half-prone  position,  pulling  Jimmy
along  with  him.  They  were  enthusiastic  but  quiet  as  they
made out, apart from a couple of snorting laughs, and Ken
daringly  slid  his  hand  down  the  back  of  Jimmy's  jeans.
Jimmy arched against him like a cat. His hot breath panted
against Ken's neck.

"Do that too much and I'll come in my jeans," he

whispered.

"It'll be payback," Ken grunted back. His cock was

hardening as he rubbed his crotch against Jimmy's.

"Shit. You mean, when you were watching me? You

came?"

Ken gulped. He couldn't think straight when Jimmy ran

his hand up the front of Ken's shirt. "Yes."

"Messy?"
Ken laughed shortly. "Very."
"That's so fucking hot," Jimmy breathed. He rolled

against Ken's body, seeking more friction. "You deserve
payback for that. Do it."

"What?"
Jimmy kissed him hard, muttered into his mouth.

"Make me come. I'm almost there. Make me come in my
jeans. Make me messy, all for you."

Ken didn't know whether to laugh or cheer. He'd never

been  so  turned  on  in  his  life,  not  even  when  he  was
watching  Waiter  and dreaming  of  it.  He  clutched  Jimmy
and  ground  his  hips  against  him.  Jimmy  shuddered,  and
gasped. A track changed in the pub music. A siren sounded
far away on the other side of the main road. The night air
tickled Ken's neck. Ken slid his hand back inside Jimmy's
jeans and grabbed a handful of lean buttock.

Jimmy made a strange, guttural noise and shook from

head  to  toe.  If  Ken  hadn't  been  hanging  on  to  him,  he
thought  Jimmy  would  have  rolled  off  the  bench  onto  the
cold ground. His head went back and even though his eyes
were  closed  this  time,  Ken  recognised  the  expression  as
Jimmy climaxed.

Ken lay there, gasping, as Jimmy's body stilled. Jimmy

opened his eyes and stared into Ken's. They both laughed,
shakily, then Jimmy dragged himself back up to sitting. He
looked dazed. "Ken, what about you?"

"I'm okay." He was still aching to come as well, but he

could wait. He didn't think his nerves would take any more
orgasms on a wooden seat, not tonight. "That was...wow."

"Shit, that was fantastic. Better than thinking of you,

out in that mean old backyard."

He thought of me when he was touching himself? Ken

felt the grin creeping over his face. "So much better than
on a screen," he murmured.

Jimmy slid a hand around Ken's waist as if casually

reaching for the back pocket of Ken's jeans. The hand fit
snugly against Ken's arse, and Jimmy chuckled. "Unless
that's what you like."

"I don't know." For the first time, Ken felt uneasy. "It

was really hot. But now I know it was you--though I'm
glad it was you, don't get me wrong--I feel odd about it."

"Huh?"
Jimmy looked puzzled and Ken thought he probably

should keep his mouth shut, but couldn't help himself.
"Like I say, I don't really know. It was a bizarre way to
start a reunion, don't you think?

Jimmy didn't laugh, as Ken thought he might. He tilted

his head to one side, as if reappraising Ken. "It was too
weird for you?"

"Not weird." Ken had never thought of himself as

inhibited,  and  it  wasn't  that.  It  had  been  as  hot  as  hell,
watching  Jimmy rub himself until his eyes glittered in the
dark,  his  head  fell  back  in just  that  way,  and  his  mouth
opened wide--and Ken came all over his hand at the same
time. "It just seems...things have happened the wrong way
around."

"You didn't want--" Jimmy gestured uncertainly at the

bench as if it'd tell the tale.

"No." Ken was emphatic. "That was great. That

was...real."

"But you think I should have called you up first? Gone

for that pizza you suggested?"

"I don't need all that hearts and flowers stuff, don't be

daft."  But  Ken  was  the  one  feeling  daft.  What  was  his
problem?  He  liked  the  feel  of  Jimmy's  hand  on  his  thigh.
The warmth of Jimmy's body beside him. Oh yes, this was
very real, and if he were honest with himself, he wanted to
go  much  farther,  much  faster.  Did  it  matter  how  they  met
up  again,  what  they'd  done  together  before  they  even
touched  in  real  life?  If  Ken  told  the  others  about  the
nighttime  watching,  Si  would  shrug  and  Robbie  would
probably  slap  him  on  the  shoulder  in  congratulation. And
Jimmy seemed just the same as he'd been at school, back
in  the  day.  Genuine,  amusing  and  sexy.  Why  not  take
advantage  of  the  fact  the  sexual  attraction  was  already
established?  Now  they  were  grown  men  together,  now
Ken knew Jimmy was interested, now Ken had kissed him

for real--

He shivered with pleasure and leaned in for another

round.

But now Jimmy looked wary. "It's not just about

getting off, Ken. I mean that, you know?"

"Of course I do."
But Ken must have sounded unconvincing, because

Jimmy sat straight up on the bench, not moving any closer.
"I want things to be good. Shit, maybe I have been away
too long. If I fucked up with a stupid joke..."

"No!" Ken protested. "I mean...no, you didn't." What

the hell had he been doing, complaining? When he'd been
at school, he'd have come as quickly as Jimmy did, if
Jimmy had even brushed against him in the corridor. And
now he was holding him at bay. Look at me, never rat on
your friends, and always keep your mouth shut.

"Ken?"
"Sorry. I zoned out." He smiled as warmly as he could,

trying  to  show  Jimmy  he  was  still  interested.  Jimmy  still
had his hand on  Ken's thigh, so maybe  Ken had given the
right  impression  after  all,  despite  his  embarrassing
tendency  to  wander  off  mentally  into  movie  land. Jimmy
Evans was a good bloke,  Robbie had said.  Ken agreed--
Jimmy  Evans  still was  a  good  bloke.  He  felt  a  wave  of
relief.

"Thing is, I want a lot more, Ken," Jimmy said. His

voice was ragged.

"Me, too." Anyone else wanna negotiate?
"I want to see more of you. Go out with you. Have sex

with you. Properly." Jimmy's tone was dogged.

"You mean, in the same room?" Ken smiled

encouragingly.

Jimmy grinned back. "It's okay if you need more time.

I f we do. We'll take it slow." His eyes were twinkling
again, though he stayed sitting rather chastely next to Ken.

"You make me sound like I'm some virginal romance

heroine who wants wooing. This is the twenty-first
century, Jimmy. I already know what I want."

They kissed again. Ken's heart beat double time.
"Are you free Sunday? I'm working late-night functions

at the restaurant all weekend, but I'm off on Sunday. What
about you?"

"I'm...not sure when I'm working next. But Sunday's

fine."

There was more kissing. Ken's breathing got very

shallow. "Keep this up, Jimmy, and it'll be my turn to get
overexcited again."

"Damn." Jimmy broke off and glanced at his watch.

"I've got to go. My brother's only free until midnight, I
have to get back to take over for Dad." He glanced down
at the lap of his jeans, ruefully. "And I have to clean up,
right? I'll call you about Sunday."

Yes, Ken thought. He's a good bloke. "That's great."
They spent a fumbling few moments exchanging

mobile numbers, then Jimmy stood and buttoned up his
coat. He looked thoughtful for a moment. "I think I just got
things the wrong way around. With us. I'll sort it out, Ken,
believe me. We can start again with a proper date, right?"

"I think we're past that now. Don't you think?" Ken

smiled, to take the sting out of it, but Jimmy looked
distracted. With another glance at his watch, he raised a
hand in goodbye, turned and hurried away.

* * * *

When Ken wandered into the office the following

night, Suzie turned around in surprise. "Ken? You're not on
yet, are you?" She glanced at the clock and frowned.
"There's still another couple of hours to go until your shift.
What's up?"

He shrugged. "I've got nothing else going on. Thought I

could start early tonight, give you some extra time off to
spend with the kids."

"What do you want?"
"Sorry?"
She burst out laughing. "If you could see the look on

your face! It's okay, I know you're not after my body. And
you're a good kid, I'm not going to say no to leaving early.
But is there a favour you need? I don't get paid until next
week, the same as you--"

"No, it's not that. Not at all." He couldn't help his gaze

sliding over Suzie's head and onto the central screen.

"What? It's something about that view, isn't it? The

backyard of the bistro." Suzie narrowed her eyes. "All the
waiters come out there to smoke. They're good-looking
guys." It looked like she was trying not to laugh. "Can't
keep away, huh?"

Ken bit his lower lip and scowled. "Please. It's not

like that." Much. "I was at school with one of them. He's
called Jimmy." His heart gave an astonishing little hiccup.
But may thy heart-beat kiss it, night and day, until the
name grow blurred and fade away.

"There's another of those looks on your face again,

Ken. You're too easy to read." Suzie laughed and swung
around on the chair to mock punch his arm. "Good for you,
kid. You deserve some romance."

He nodded and smiled, but he knew it wasn't totally

genuine. "It's not quite like that, Suze. We met...well, in a
rather  weird  way.  I'm  having  trouble  seeing  past  that,
really."  What  was  he  rambling  on  about?  Suzie  really
oughtn't to have that sympathetic, helpful look on her face,
it  just  encouraged  him  to  humiliate  himself  even  further.
He glanced at the screen again but it was all quiet behind
the bistro.

Why had he told Jimmy he didn't know when he was

next  at  work?  Was  he  trying  to  catch  him  out?  Ken  had  a
ghastly  image  of  Jimmy  jerking  off  to  anyone  who  was
watching,  not  just  Ken.  Perhaps  Jimmy was  some  kind  of
exhibitionist?

Suzie had pulled on her coat but seemed reluctant to

leave. "Ken? You look a bit worried. Upset."

"Do you think it's weird, Suze? This job?"
"You mean watching a place where your friend hangs

out?" She shrugged. She'd seen right through him. "That's
the way it is. It's not like you're spying on him, or he
doesn't know you're here." She peered at him again. "Does
he?"

"Of course he does. We've talked about it. We're on

the same page." Or should that be same screen? And
Jimmy didn't know Ken was here tonight, did he? Did that
matter?

"I can hear your brain working, Ken. Lots of clunking

and whirring. Needs more WD40."

Ken laughed. "Aren't you leaving, Mom?"
And then a flicker caught the corner of his eye and he

turned to watch the screen again. A figure darted out of the
back door of the restaurant and ran quickly across the yard
toward the sheltered corner.

"What's happening?" Suzie shuffled up beside him, her

curious gaze following his. "Oh, it's only him."

"What do you mean, it's him?"
"That looks like Jimmy."
Ken felt himself flush. "Well, yes, it does. I suppose

you guessed that from this embarrassingly open look you
say I have--"

"No way," Suzie interrupted, cheerfully. "I've seen him

already."

"What?"
"Don't say what, say pardon. And look for yourself."

Suzie turned Ken back toward the screen. She was
definitely smirking.

Ken could see the side of Jimmy's head and his lean

body.  He  was  wriggling  around  behind  the  bin.  Then  he
looked  quickly  around  the  yard,  as  if  checking  he  was
alone.  His  arm  snaked  out  in  front  of  him,  then  down  in
front of his trousers, and his shoulders braced as if he was
about to grasp hold of something.

Nausea tugged at Ken's throat. So Jimmy was right

when he said it'd been a joke. A joke on Ken, and anyone
else  who  was  looking  in. Again  and  again  and  again
until  you  learn  to  keep  your  mouth  shut  and  your  mind
closed,  Potter!  To  Ken's  horror,  he  realised  Suzie  was
still standing beside him, leaning toward the screen to see
better. "Get back!" he snapped, putting his arm out across
her,  stopping  her  coming  closer.  "Turn  the  bloody  thing
off!"

"Hey!" Suzie pushed back, annoyed. "I only wanted to

see the signs again."

Ken's mind did its own version of a double-take.

"Signs?"

"For God's sake, Ken." Suzie leaned over his arm and

tweaked the contrast button. "Just watch, will you?"

As Ken stared at the screen, Jimmy straightened up,

but now he had something white in his arms. He turned

toward the camera, and Ken saw it was a roll of kitchen
paper. Jimmy unrolled a handful of sheets and seemed to
wipe his hand quickly over them.

"It's a pen," Suzie hissed beside Ken. "He's writing."
Ken didn't ask her what she was talking about, because

now he could see. Jimmy lifted up the first sheet of paper
and held it up in front of his face. The camera caught it at
just the right angle to be read clearly.

HELLO, KEN. Up came another sheet. FROM

JIMMY. And another. URGENT.

"What the hell's going on?" Ken asked of no one in

particular.

ABOUT LAST NIGHT.
Suzie snorted in Ken's ear.
BEST OF INTENTIONS. MINE, THAT IS.

ANOTHER DATE?

"Oooh!"
"Shut up, Suze."
CAN PICK YOU UP AT 7. SUNDAY. PROPER

DATE. HEARTS. FLOWERS. OK? A brief pause, then a
single word, underlined. PLEASE.

"Daft melodrama. He could have just called me," Ken

said. His eyes stung just a little bit.

LOST YOUR NUMBER. SIS DROPPED PHONE IN

LOO. Another impatient scribble on the paper. LONG
STORY.

"I'll bet," Suzie said.

WANT TO SEE YOU AGAIN.
"How could he know if I was on tonight?"
Suzie gave an impatient tut. "He's done this twice

already  tonight,  each  time  he  has  a  break.  Different
phrases, same message. He obviously means to keep it up
until  he  gets  your  attention.  God  knows  what  Charlie
would have made of it, if he'd been on duty. I'd have told
you  before  I  left,  honest--but  now  I  don't  need  to."  Suzie
nudged Ken in the ribs. "You still want to turn the bloody
thing off?"

"No, of course not. I just don't know why he couldn't

wait, and get my number again from Ollie or one of the
others."

Another sheet fluttered in the dim backyard.
DON'T WANT TO WAIT. MUST TELL YOU.
"What? What?" Suzie craned forward. "This is a new

announcement!"

CRICKET TROUSERS HOT.
"Huh?"
Ken started to laugh.
BE MY BOYFRIEND, KEN COOPER. And another

shake of the single word sheet.

PLEASE.
The door back into the restaurant opened and light

spilled  out  into  the  yard.  A  couple  of  other  waiters
sauntered  out.  Ken  saw  the  click  of  a  lighter,  a  packet  of
cigs  being  shared.  One  of  them  waved  at  Jimmy  as  if

reminding him his break was over now. Jimmy quickly
balled up the sheets and stuffed them into the nearest bin.
Then darted out from the shadows and ran back into the
bistro.

"Ken? Ken!" Suzie was almost shaking him in her

excitement. "What did all that mean? Are you going out
with him? What's happening? When did you wear cricket
trousers, for God's sake?"

"Got to go," Ken said. He felt very warm and very

happy. He had the horrid suspicion Suzie would read all
that in his face--or the goofy grin he couldn't seem to turn
off--but he couldn't care less. "Sorry, Suze, but I'll have to
withdraw my offer."

Suzie was already shrugging off her coat again. "Go

on, get off down there. Charlie and I will cover your shift
tonight, though you'll owe me a large bar of chocolate for
it. Two, probably, plus some sherbet lemons for the kids."

Ken hugged her. He'd be down at the bistro in fifteen

minutes, let  Jimmy know he was there, and that he'd seen
his  message.  They  could  spend  Jimmy's  next  break
together.  They  could  walk  home  together.  They  were
boyfriends now, weren't they?

"Unusual courtship ritual," Suzie said. She was

shaking with laughter.

"Has been from the beginning," Ken replied, happily.

"But I've realised it doesn't matter how, as long as you get
there in the end. I didn't wait all that time since Year

Eleven to give up now."

Suzie stared at him as if he'd gone completely mad.

"You look revoltingly lovesick, Ken. I think I may throw
up."

But Ken didn't wait to hear if she did or not, because

he was racing out of the door and down the stairs, on the
way out of the security centre.

"Was there something special he said in those notes?"

Suzie called after him.

"Who cares?" Ken yelled back.
After all, Jimmy had him at hello!

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 at http://www.clarelondon.co.uk and

say hello!

* * * *

Don't miss Chase The Ace, by Clare London,

available at AmberAllure.com!

Newly single in his late twenties, and looking for

more fun than he gets from his boring job, Daniel Cross
soon  discovers  the  lure  of  social  media.  After  a  few
hiccups, he's excited at the chance of tracking down his
old  mates  from  the  Scorching  Summer  Sports  Club  of
1990.  He  lost  touch  with  his  "Gang  of  Four"  after  that
summer,  but  now  he  launches  a  personal  quest  to  find
out what kind of man each boy has become.

It starts well with a link to the first boy's current

address, through a mutual friend on Facebook, until Dan
realises  he's  been  chatting  online  to  the  wrong  man--
Nick  Carson  isn't  an  old  school  friend  at  all.  It's  a
genuine  mistake,  and  Nick  isn't  offended.  He  offers  to
accompany  Dan  on  the  trip  to  find  the  others.  It's  the
first  step  to  friendship  and  something  more  for  both  of
them.

For Dan, the reunions with the "Gang of Four"

range  from  startling,  heartening  and  disturbing.  Nick's
company  is  a  constant  support,  though  neither  of  them
are prepared for the exposure of personal secrets they'd
thought  were  long-hidden.  Dan  begins  to  suspect  that
he's  really  looking  for  a  direction  in  his  own  life--and
the  excitement  and  purpose  he  craves  may  be  closer  to
home than a quest with its roots in a boyhood dream.

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