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"Yes?" The man on the doorstep was young enough to be one of the office workers, who all seemed to be in their early twenties, a phone permanently clamped to their ears, but he lacked their brittle polish and the piercings in his left ear, three of them, jagged-edged heavy hoops, were a world away from a discreetly fashionable statement. All swagger and spit. Simon eyed him coolly, noting the muscles under the leather jacket and the short, bright gold of his hair, unabashedly artificial. It would feel stiff against his hand, and dry, and he'd let his hands wander in search of where it grew darker, softer, crisply curling. My type? Oh, fuck, yes, but somehow I doubt he's here to offer me a complimentary blow job. "You Weatherly?" The voice was mellow, a startling contrast to the pale grey eyes and angular features, heavy with a northern accent. The abruptness of the question and the use of his name made caution flare up. Simon gave his visitor an appraising glance and still didn't recognise him. If he'd picked up this one, no matter how drunk, he'd remember it, he was certain of that. Which meant, unlikely as it seemed, he was here in response to the ad Simon ran once or twice a year, looking to fill some of the gaps in his book collection. "You've got something for me?" "A book. Yeah." He patted a bulge in his jacket that was vaguely rectangular. "Want to see it?" Simon wanted to rescue the book before the corners were rubbed and bent and the light rain falling now meant that his doorstep wasn't the place to do that, but he wasn't keen on inviting the man in. His hesitation must have been easily read; the man smiled, a knowing curl of his lips, well-shaped, the lines clear and the lower lip generous and lush. "Don't worry, mate; I won't touch anything and I don't have fleas." If he'd expected that to fluster Simon, he was doomed to disappointment. "No? I did once, courtesy of my cat, but as he's long dead, let's hope the fleas are, too. Come in." Return to Home Click here to e-mail the author |