PEEPSHOW

by

CLARE LONDON

Amber Quill Press, LLC

http://www.amberquill.com

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

All rights reserved.

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.

Copyright © 2013 by Clare London

ISBN 978-1-61124-446-5

Cover Art © 2013 Trace Edward Zaber

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

Dedication

To Tam for naming my main character, to Son#1 for his

media knowledge, and to Vivien for saving my last-

minute sanity!

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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