Ash Penn - Stray.pdf - mm - Ciastecz_ko

Stray

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eISBN 978-1-60737-813-6

Editor: Venessa Giunta

Cover Artist: Anne Cain

Printed in the United States of America

Published by

Loose Id LLC

PO Box 425960

San Francisco CA 94142-5960

www.loose-id.com

This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual

historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are

either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any

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Chapter One

I came down to breakfast that morning to find Marc snuggled up against a boy

at the kitchen table. Not that I’d expected his winter of celibacy to last forever, but it

was odd to see him slobbering over someone else, someone who wasn’t my arch

nemesis, Bradley Hall, someone who wasn’t me.

I stood in the doorway, waiting to be noticed, and when that failed, I strolled

in, plonked myself down opposite the lovebirds, and swiped a piece of cold toast

from the rack, gnawing the crust while Marc nibbled the boy’s earlobe.

“Don’t!” The word burst without warning from the boy’s lips. He wriggled

around in Marc’s embrace and shoved an elbow into his chest. Marc winced,

straightened up in his chair, and managed to give me a weak smile.

“Hey, Tez,” he said, indulging himself in a long, muscular stretch while I eyed

the coarse dark hair curling out from beneath his arms where his T-shirt parted from

his biceps. The boy caught me looking and made a face. “How was your shift?”

“Fan-fucking-tastic.” I grabbed a croissant from the plate, ripped it in half, and

contemplated the flaky innards. There was no need to ask how Marc’s night had

gone. While I was hard at work pulling pints and mixing cocktails, Marc was hard at

home getting himself laid.

“This is Dan, by the way,” Marc said.

I lifted my gaze from the unappetising pastry on my plate. The boy studied me

from beneath dark lashes, his fair hair contrasting with the black shirt hanging loosely

from his shoulders. One of Marc’s labels, I realised. Marc never let me within

sniffing distance of his designer stuff.

“And Dan, this is Terry,” he continued. “My housemate.”

“And best mate,” I added, seeing our fourteen-year friendship, formed in the

long, dark days of our early teens, was worth considerably more than the four years

we’d shared a lease.

“Yeah. Best mate too.” Marc’s smile warmed me right through, and I found

myself returning it despite myself. I was still pissed off that he’d brought some

random shag back to our home, but the guy would disappear soon enough. Then it

would be just Marc and me again. Exactly how it should be. No point getting myself

wound up over a one-night stand. “Oh, and by the way,” Marc added, slipping an arm

around the kid’s shoulder, “Dan’s going to be staying with us for a bit.”

“A bit of what?”

“Of time. Dan’s our new housemate.”

New housemate? Did he mean this house? Our house? With us?

“Marc?” I cleared my throat. Damn, it was definitely too early in the morning

for this. “Do you think I might have a word with you? In the hall?”

The kid glanced up from the pot of strawberry jam he’d been slathering over

his spread-eagle croissant. His eyes, I noted, were a stormy shade of blue-grey. His

face verged on the cherubic, with wide forehead, fat-padded cheeks, and a chin just

shy of receding. To me he looked barely legal, though later I discovered he was

nineteen and quite indignant if anyone mistook him for a minor. e gazed steadily at

me like I was about to perform a morning floor show. I counteracted his attention

with a derisive once-over of my own before standing to escort his newfound sugar

daddy into the hall.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” I demanded into Marc’s confused,

sleep-deprived face soon as the door was firmly closed. “You don’t know that lad

from a turd in the park.”

“Will you keep your voice down?” Marc cast a worried glance over my head at

the door. I bet the kid had his cute, recently nibbled ear pressed flush to the wood.

“Who is he?” I demanded, lowering the decibel level more for privacy than to

appease Marc’s sensitivities. “Some strumpet you picked up in the pub last night?”

“No. I met him at work.”

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