Clean Bedding By Alp Mortal
Categories: Contemporary Romance | Gay
Word Count: 14,836 Heat Rating: 2 AMAZON LINK relinks.me/B00DS9R6VQ |
Arno manages a little seedy hotel in Bloomsbury, dreaming of the day when maybe he can open his own lavish, five-star boutique hotel. But dreaming alone won’t make it happen. A long-stay guest – an American writer – plants the seed of change.
However, when Nigel, the owner of the hotel, unexpectedly bails after a run-in with the Tax Man, the dream looks pretty shaky when it’s almost certain that Arno is going to have to leave with nowhere to go. And to make matters worse, Nigel’s sidekick, Adrian, also disappears, dashing any chance that he and Arno might have had of finally getting it together. Just as Arno is readying to bail himself, he is saved by an unlikely ally. Yet, despite keeping his job, and after two years, during which time the hotel is transformed, Arno’s thoughts repeatedly return to Adrian and where he ended up. Does the attractive stranger whom Arno finds in the hotel’s lounge one day have the answer? A quirky little romance that I wrote back in 2013 and published for the first time in 2014. For some reason at the time, I was thinking how true it is that so often, we cannot see the wood for the trees, and what our heart desires is staring us in the face if we could but open our eyes. Alp Mortal June 2020 |
Chapter One – Home sleazy home
A run down sleazy little hotel in Bloomsbury is going to attract that sort of customer; the afternoon shag brigade ... pay in cash and leave the key on the desk as they head out for dinner. Still, taking the cash and changing the bed and replacing the towels in time for the just one night brigade means that I can actually survive on the pay from this loathsome job.
Not that I don’t take pride in my work; you won’t find a stray pubic hair in the bath or skid marks in the toilet pan or dried cum on the sheets. Oh no; this place sparkles; it’s only the customers who lack lustre.
We offer bed and breakfast; a 'continental style' breakfast buffet from eight until ten and if anyone should be brave - or stupid enough - to venture into the dining room, they will leave assured that we really don’t care; yoghurt in tubs that you have to break from the pack of eight yourself, cereal in kids’ packs, juice and milk in the carton, bread to toast yourself, jam in the jar and butter in single serving portions. It means less work for me and no hassle for the boss, Nigel; a guy I rarely see.
I live behind reception; the only truly magnificent thing in the hotel. No doubt a left over from the heyday it enjoyed about a hundred years ago. I have a bedroom and a shower room.
I sit behind the reception desk when I’m not cleaning and continually polish the glowing mahogany surface until it shines like antique glass. Behind me are the pigeon holes for the keys and the messages; which is a joke since no one who stays ever stays for more than one night and none use their real name. Smith is still the favourite, followed by Jones and for some bizarre reason, Walsh.
Ten rooms, all twins with an en suite bathroom with a shower over; four on the first floor, four on the second and two on the third in what is effectively the roof space. The ground floor consists of the lobby and reception, a small kitchen, dining room and lounge. The basement is rented out to three Romanian guys who sell drugs, judging by the security.
I smile and welcome my sleazy and often drunk guests; ask them to sign in, take the cash - always cash - hand them the key and remind them of the breakfast buffet opening times, ending with a cheerful 'enjoy your stay' by which time they’ve disappeared to shag each other’s brains out and collapse for a few hours. Then they make a discrete exit, slipping the key onto the desk. If I’m really lucky, the guy will slip me a tenner which I take to mean that I’ll say nothing should someone come asking; like I remember anyone’s face, they all look the same.
A run down sleazy little hotel in Bloomsbury is going to attract that sort of customer; the afternoon shag brigade ... pay in cash and leave the key on the desk as they head out for dinner. Still, taking the cash and changing the bed and replacing the towels in time for the just one night brigade means that I can actually survive on the pay from this loathsome job.
Not that I don’t take pride in my work; you won’t find a stray pubic hair in the bath or skid marks in the toilet pan or dried cum on the sheets. Oh no; this place sparkles; it’s only the customers who lack lustre.
We offer bed and breakfast; a 'continental style' breakfast buffet from eight until ten and if anyone should be brave - or stupid enough - to venture into the dining room, they will leave assured that we really don’t care; yoghurt in tubs that you have to break from the pack of eight yourself, cereal in kids’ packs, juice and milk in the carton, bread to toast yourself, jam in the jar and butter in single serving portions. It means less work for me and no hassle for the boss, Nigel; a guy I rarely see.
I live behind reception; the only truly magnificent thing in the hotel. No doubt a left over from the heyday it enjoyed about a hundred years ago. I have a bedroom and a shower room.
I sit behind the reception desk when I’m not cleaning and continually polish the glowing mahogany surface until it shines like antique glass. Behind me are the pigeon holes for the keys and the messages; which is a joke since no one who stays ever stays for more than one night and none use their real name. Smith is still the favourite, followed by Jones and for some bizarre reason, Walsh.
Ten rooms, all twins with an en suite bathroom with a shower over; four on the first floor, four on the second and two on the third in what is effectively the roof space. The ground floor consists of the lobby and reception, a small kitchen, dining room and lounge. The basement is rented out to three Romanian guys who sell drugs, judging by the security.
I smile and welcome my sleazy and often drunk guests; ask them to sign in, take the cash - always cash - hand them the key and remind them of the breakfast buffet opening times, ending with a cheerful 'enjoy your stay' by which time they’ve disappeared to shag each other’s brains out and collapse for a few hours. Then they make a discrete exit, slipping the key onto the desk. If I’m really lucky, the guy will slip me a tenner which I take to mean that I’ll say nothing should someone come asking; like I remember anyone’s face, they all look the same.