Wood For The Trees by Morgan Starr
Categories: Contemporary Romance | LGBT
Word Count: 21,941 Heat Rating: 3 Price: $ .99 Available here:
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Tolly is wasting away under the strain of paying the bills and coping with having had to put his mum into care. A life of thankless tasks and bitter disappointments on the romance front has taken their toll on him but there is still a glimmer of hope.
One night, in his favourite bar, he asks an attractive stranger if they would like a drink. The result turns his world on its head. Reeling from the aftershock of at last finding a kindred spirit, his chance discovery of good ol' grandad's secret double life is enough to completely change his perspective on life. This is a story about wiping the slate clean and giving yourself a fresh start while facing down your greatest fears. Wood For The Trees is my fourth title published through my creative partnership with the Carter Seagrove Project LLC. I am indebted to Shannon M. Kirkland for another stunning cover, and to the team for the unstinting support I have received throughout the project. I would be very happy to receive your feedback. If you wish to contact me directly, please email me at: [email protected]. Please visit my website, www.MorganStarrAuthor.weebly.com, for updates on my next story. Thank you, Morgan |
Chapter One - Recruitment Drive
“Can I buy you a drink?”
As chat-up lines go, it’s a pretty standard one, and usually safe. If he says ‘yes’, I’m in with a chance ... if only to find out what he drinks and maybe his name. If I can get closer, I might be able to smell his cologne - not exactly his cologne; the scent of his body and his cologne combined. The scent that no perfume house can ever manage to put in a bottle.
“Sure ...”
“I’m Tolly ...”
A second to register, and hopefully he didn’t assume that he misheard me and think I said Trolley.
“Tolly?”
“My mum has - had - has - a thing for Tolstoy ... What do you want to drink?”
“Vodka ... thanks. I’m James.”
“Pleased to meet you, James. Why is it so dead in here tonight?”
“There’s a drag show on at Percy’s.”
“Really? Why aren’t you there? Not your thing?”
“Sometimes it’s my thing, but I fancied a quiet drink.”
“Oh; did you want to be by yourself?”
“Quiet, not necessarily alone ... Are you going to go?”
“To Percy’s? I doubt it; crowds freak me out.”
“Me too ...”
While the barman pours our drinks, there are those few moments of piquancy as we try very hard not to be too obvious in our checking out.
“Cheers!”
“Cheers!”
“Did you want to grab a table, James?”
“Sure ...”
I lead and he follows, but I feel more lamb-like than usual, sensing his confidence, which raises the hairs on the back of my neck and along my forearms and makes my bum feel like someone is trying to use it to take the cap off a bottle.
Feeling happier to listen, I ask, “What do you do?”
“For work? I tailor make travel packages; pretty niche but I’m fortunate to have a few really good clients who like my ideas ... What do you do?”
Shit.
“I work at the dog grooming parlour ...”
I don’t usually elaborate. Nine out of ten guys laugh, then feel embarrassed for laughing, and change the subject or leave. One in ten asks me for a discount, and I leave.
“I love dogs ... my Brillo - he’s a Lab-Staffie cross - always gets in the bath with me ...”
“Brillo?”
“I took a shine to him and he took a shine to me ... get it?”
“Uhm, yeah ... I have a Chihuahua - Monty - who rules me with a rod of iron, and even if I just attempt to cut his nails, he bites me.”
“I thought you’d have that off pat, being a groomer.”
“I can practically have my head inside a pit bull’s mouth to clean his teeth, and he won’t even curl his lip ... but as soon as Monty sees the grooming brush - not even the nail clippers - he turns into a monster.”
“Monty?”
“As in Field Marshall Bernard Law Montgomery ... I am, apparently, one of his troops.”
“Maybe you need to promote yourself.”
“The problem is, he was mum’s dog, and she spoiled him rotten. Can’t do a fucking thing with the old wheeze bag - the dog not her ... she’s in a home.”
“I’m sorry ... but, she can’t be very old though, can she?”
“She went a bit funny in the head after my dad died, and it progressed to the point where I couldn’t do everything for her and work fulltime.”
“That’s sounds rough ... Did you want another drink?”
“No; I want to go home, get naked and shag like a rabbit!”
“Sure; why not?”
“After that, we can go back to my place if you want; I’m not far ...”
“Sure; I’d love to meet the dog ...”
As he gets up, he smiles, but keeps his eyes downcast - an adorable cleft in his chin and his front teeth overlap just a little bit.
“Vodka?”
“Thanks.”
As he moves away towards the bar, the music changes to something more rhythmic, and he wiggles his bum in time with the beat. A confident, Staffie-owning entrepreneur - I’m dreaming, no doubt seconds away from being woken up by Monty, demanding to be fed then let out, after which, I should remain vigilant and attend his every need but without being too fawny ... and be fucking grateful that this honour has been bestowed upon me.
“Are you hungry?” asks James as he sets the drink down in front of me.
“I had something before I came out - maybe some chips?”
“We’ll pick some up on the way back to mine if you like.”
“Okay. What about your parents?”
“I don’t know the politically correct term for them ... cunts.”
“Any reason other than the usual?”
“What’s the usual?”
“You came out and they rejected you.”
“Bingo! Apparently, that wasn’t on ... Did you come out before your dad died?”
“I did, but they didn’t care.”
“How liberating!”
“No; they didn’t care ... Dad was always at work - read down the bookies or in the pub, as we later found out - and Mum was, even then, away with the fairies. When he died and she flipped, she forgot ... When I see her, she talks about me in the third person.”
“Who does she think you are?”
“The man she had an affair with, who could have been my actual father, but the facts are so mashed with the fiction that it’s easier to just forget about it.”
“That sounds awful.”
“Either my father was an itinerant bricklayer or a drunk and a gambler ... I agree it isn’t much of a choice.”
“I’d just like to close the door on the whole fucking lot and never have to think about them ever again ...”
Shared pain - a powerful aphrodisiac.
“... Did you still want to come back to my place?”
“Yeah; I’d like to ... Let’s get those chips.”
oOo
“Brillo will go mad at first; just ignore him and wait for him to come and make friends.”
“Monty is the same; it’s just you’ll be waiting for a fucking long time!”
James turns his head as he laughs; it’s a mask of sorts. In the light of the porch outside his front door, he looks a little anxious. As if I’m likely to judge him or his place.
“We’ll put the chips in the oven to warm up for a bit while we have a drink ...”
As we walk through the door, we’re charged by Brillo - he’d make an excellent addition to Monty’s army. A few minutes of mania ensues before he calms down enough to be petted - he’s just a big ol’ baby.
“Make yourself at home; I’ll pop the oven on. What do you want to drink?”
“Vodka, James, please - no ice ...”
A spacious and elegant lounge opens off of the hallway. Two large over-stuffed sofas face one another across a coffee table that is fashioned from a piece of highly polished stone that could be marble.
“Travel obviously broadens the bank account,” I murmur to myself as I stick my nose into the book, CD and DVD collections that are arranged in various cases around the perimeter of the room - though I can’t see a TV.
“Here!”
“Thanks; nice place ... Where’s the TV?”
“Did you want to watch something?”
“No! It’s just, these days, everyone has a fuck off TV mounted on the wall ... everyone except me.”
“And me ... I have a small one in the bedroom ... Five minutes and we can eat.”
“What is the table made of?”
“Serpentine; found it - the stone - in Cornwall about five years ago. Cost more to have it moved here than to have it made into a table ... So, where do you live?”
“By the racecourse ...”
“That’s a nice area.”
“Oh, I live in the dilapidated one before the turning ... Dad didn’t spend much money on the house, and my spare cash goes to the animal rescue.”
“Which one?”
“Cedar Lake-”
“That’s where Brillo came from - how bizarre.”
“I volunteer there most Sundays and on my days off ... I don’t remember him so I must have started after you got him.”
“Three years ago ...”
“I started there about two years ago ... The doctor said to do something to take my mind off things, and dogs are good therapy.”
“Doctor?”
“During the worst of it, I got a bit down ... it wasn’t anything serious; more just like burnout, trying to cope with everything ... mucking out the kennels and walking the dogs was - is - kind of perfect.”
“Sounds like you could do with a break ... I have tons of contacts, and discounts like you wouldn’t believe.”
“Thanks ... but going away on my own doesn’t sound very appealing ... and there’s no one to look after Monty.”
His scent is fresh; not from being scrubbed with some fancy gel - air fresh - not tangy like lemon or sharp like mint or hot like pepper ... grassy - not cut grass, just grass. Remember when you’d pick stalks as a kid and strip the outer coating off and suck the fresh green stem - that kind of fresh. And remember when the stem got a bit mushy and slightly bitter? That’s how I think his pits and the crown of his cock would taste, and his cum would be that bit stronger.
“Tolly?”
“Uhm ... yeah?”
“I said maybe we could double up and take the dogs with us ...”
“Oh ... d’ya think?”
“Why not? We could go to Cornwall ...”
He gets up to move in the direction of the kitchen - I can smell the chips now - and adds, “Got a brilliant deal on a cottage near Porthleven last year ... Are you ready to eat?”
The kitchen is pretty spartan but a serious place with many different kinds of food processors parked discretely in various corners, and gadgets and things that look like instruments of medieval torture hanging from hooks all along one side above a worktop. We sit at the breakfast bar and eat our chips out of the paper - albeit resting on a plate to save the counter top from getting mucky - with our fingers, taking turns to dip our chips in the bowls of ketchup, mustard and mayonnaise - a man with a firm grip on condiments.
“Do you cook a lot?” I ask, wondering if I dare mention veganism - it’s a childhood trait - the veganism, not daring to ask inane questions. As a child, struggling between the demon in the bottle and the fairy in the tree, I managed to cook myself vegetables pretty often - steamed in the microwave - but meat and fish were always in short supply. Actually, the smell and taste of animal fat just makes me want to heave; always did.
“When I’m in the mood ... it’s not much fun cooking for myself; most of the time, I can’t be bothered. My favourite is Thai food. What about you?”
“I like it too; I’m vegan ...”
“That’s great! I eat eggs and dairy but no meat or fish. So, what did you think of the holiday idea?”
“Sounds okay ... but we’ve only just met.”
“I know ... it could just be a holiday ... I know I could use one, and you look like you need one.”
“Thanks!”
“I didn’t mean it nasty ... but you do ...”
I have no illusions about myself - pale and thin like a boiled scarecrow. He’s all bristling with health and hair that shines and teeth that sparkle and a dog that does what it’s told - cunt.
“I know; I’d like to go away ... let’s think about it ... when were you thinking?”
“A month from now; weather will be good but the kids won’t have broken up, and we’d have the pick of the crop for a fortnight ...”
“You’d have to drive down because I don’t have a car.”
“Fine ... What time you gotta get back for the dog tonight?”
“By eleven; otherwise, he’ll knock the kitchen bin over and spread the contents over the lounge. I watched that whisperer thing on the telly ... what a fucking waste of time.”
“If Brillo acts up, I smack his bum and use my telling off voice.”
“See that scar there ...” I pull up my sleeve to show him a recent scar on my forearm, “that’s what I got for using my telling off voice ...”
He’s grinning.
“What? It fucking hurt.”
“Don’t doubt it ... ruled by a fucking Chihuahua ...”
“I know ... pathetic.”
“You got two hours before lights out ...”
“Did you? ...”
“Yeah ... Did you?”
“It’s been a while ...”
“... Me too, actually ... Come on ...
“Can I buy you a drink?”
As chat-up lines go, it’s a pretty standard one, and usually safe. If he says ‘yes’, I’m in with a chance ... if only to find out what he drinks and maybe his name. If I can get closer, I might be able to smell his cologne - not exactly his cologne; the scent of his body and his cologne combined. The scent that no perfume house can ever manage to put in a bottle.
“Sure ...”
“I’m Tolly ...”
A second to register, and hopefully he didn’t assume that he misheard me and think I said Trolley.
“Tolly?”
“My mum has - had - has - a thing for Tolstoy ... What do you want to drink?”
“Vodka ... thanks. I’m James.”
“Pleased to meet you, James. Why is it so dead in here tonight?”
“There’s a drag show on at Percy’s.”
“Really? Why aren’t you there? Not your thing?”
“Sometimes it’s my thing, but I fancied a quiet drink.”
“Oh; did you want to be by yourself?”
“Quiet, not necessarily alone ... Are you going to go?”
“To Percy’s? I doubt it; crowds freak me out.”
“Me too ...”
While the barman pours our drinks, there are those few moments of piquancy as we try very hard not to be too obvious in our checking out.
“Cheers!”
“Cheers!”
“Did you want to grab a table, James?”
“Sure ...”
I lead and he follows, but I feel more lamb-like than usual, sensing his confidence, which raises the hairs on the back of my neck and along my forearms and makes my bum feel like someone is trying to use it to take the cap off a bottle.
Feeling happier to listen, I ask, “What do you do?”
“For work? I tailor make travel packages; pretty niche but I’m fortunate to have a few really good clients who like my ideas ... What do you do?”
Shit.
“I work at the dog grooming parlour ...”
I don’t usually elaborate. Nine out of ten guys laugh, then feel embarrassed for laughing, and change the subject or leave. One in ten asks me for a discount, and I leave.
“I love dogs ... my Brillo - he’s a Lab-Staffie cross - always gets in the bath with me ...”
“Brillo?”
“I took a shine to him and he took a shine to me ... get it?”
“Uhm, yeah ... I have a Chihuahua - Monty - who rules me with a rod of iron, and even if I just attempt to cut his nails, he bites me.”
“I thought you’d have that off pat, being a groomer.”
“I can practically have my head inside a pit bull’s mouth to clean his teeth, and he won’t even curl his lip ... but as soon as Monty sees the grooming brush - not even the nail clippers - he turns into a monster.”
“Monty?”
“As in Field Marshall Bernard Law Montgomery ... I am, apparently, one of his troops.”
“Maybe you need to promote yourself.”
“The problem is, he was mum’s dog, and she spoiled him rotten. Can’t do a fucking thing with the old wheeze bag - the dog not her ... she’s in a home.”
“I’m sorry ... but, she can’t be very old though, can she?”
“She went a bit funny in the head after my dad died, and it progressed to the point where I couldn’t do everything for her and work fulltime.”
“That’s sounds rough ... Did you want another drink?”
“No; I want to go home, get naked and shag like a rabbit!”
“Sure; why not?”
“After that, we can go back to my place if you want; I’m not far ...”
“Sure; I’d love to meet the dog ...”
As he gets up, he smiles, but keeps his eyes downcast - an adorable cleft in his chin and his front teeth overlap just a little bit.
“Vodka?”
“Thanks.”
As he moves away towards the bar, the music changes to something more rhythmic, and he wiggles his bum in time with the beat. A confident, Staffie-owning entrepreneur - I’m dreaming, no doubt seconds away from being woken up by Monty, demanding to be fed then let out, after which, I should remain vigilant and attend his every need but without being too fawny ... and be fucking grateful that this honour has been bestowed upon me.
“Are you hungry?” asks James as he sets the drink down in front of me.
“I had something before I came out - maybe some chips?”
“We’ll pick some up on the way back to mine if you like.”
“Okay. What about your parents?”
“I don’t know the politically correct term for them ... cunts.”
“Any reason other than the usual?”
“What’s the usual?”
“You came out and they rejected you.”
“Bingo! Apparently, that wasn’t on ... Did you come out before your dad died?”
“I did, but they didn’t care.”
“How liberating!”
“No; they didn’t care ... Dad was always at work - read down the bookies or in the pub, as we later found out - and Mum was, even then, away with the fairies. When he died and she flipped, she forgot ... When I see her, she talks about me in the third person.”
“Who does she think you are?”
“The man she had an affair with, who could have been my actual father, but the facts are so mashed with the fiction that it’s easier to just forget about it.”
“That sounds awful.”
“Either my father was an itinerant bricklayer or a drunk and a gambler ... I agree it isn’t much of a choice.”
“I’d just like to close the door on the whole fucking lot and never have to think about them ever again ...”
Shared pain - a powerful aphrodisiac.
“... Did you still want to come back to my place?”
“Yeah; I’d like to ... Let’s get those chips.”
oOo
“Brillo will go mad at first; just ignore him and wait for him to come and make friends.”
“Monty is the same; it’s just you’ll be waiting for a fucking long time!”
James turns his head as he laughs; it’s a mask of sorts. In the light of the porch outside his front door, he looks a little anxious. As if I’m likely to judge him or his place.
“We’ll put the chips in the oven to warm up for a bit while we have a drink ...”
As we walk through the door, we’re charged by Brillo - he’d make an excellent addition to Monty’s army. A few minutes of mania ensues before he calms down enough to be petted - he’s just a big ol’ baby.
“Make yourself at home; I’ll pop the oven on. What do you want to drink?”
“Vodka, James, please - no ice ...”
A spacious and elegant lounge opens off of the hallway. Two large over-stuffed sofas face one another across a coffee table that is fashioned from a piece of highly polished stone that could be marble.
“Travel obviously broadens the bank account,” I murmur to myself as I stick my nose into the book, CD and DVD collections that are arranged in various cases around the perimeter of the room - though I can’t see a TV.
“Here!”
“Thanks; nice place ... Where’s the TV?”
“Did you want to watch something?”
“No! It’s just, these days, everyone has a fuck off TV mounted on the wall ... everyone except me.”
“And me ... I have a small one in the bedroom ... Five minutes and we can eat.”
“What is the table made of?”
“Serpentine; found it - the stone - in Cornwall about five years ago. Cost more to have it moved here than to have it made into a table ... So, where do you live?”
“By the racecourse ...”
“That’s a nice area.”
“Oh, I live in the dilapidated one before the turning ... Dad didn’t spend much money on the house, and my spare cash goes to the animal rescue.”
“Which one?”
“Cedar Lake-”
“That’s where Brillo came from - how bizarre.”
“I volunteer there most Sundays and on my days off ... I don’t remember him so I must have started after you got him.”
“Three years ago ...”
“I started there about two years ago ... The doctor said to do something to take my mind off things, and dogs are good therapy.”
“Doctor?”
“During the worst of it, I got a bit down ... it wasn’t anything serious; more just like burnout, trying to cope with everything ... mucking out the kennels and walking the dogs was - is - kind of perfect.”
“Sounds like you could do with a break ... I have tons of contacts, and discounts like you wouldn’t believe.”
“Thanks ... but going away on my own doesn’t sound very appealing ... and there’s no one to look after Monty.”
His scent is fresh; not from being scrubbed with some fancy gel - air fresh - not tangy like lemon or sharp like mint or hot like pepper ... grassy - not cut grass, just grass. Remember when you’d pick stalks as a kid and strip the outer coating off and suck the fresh green stem - that kind of fresh. And remember when the stem got a bit mushy and slightly bitter? That’s how I think his pits and the crown of his cock would taste, and his cum would be that bit stronger.
“Tolly?”
“Uhm ... yeah?”
“I said maybe we could double up and take the dogs with us ...”
“Oh ... d’ya think?”
“Why not? We could go to Cornwall ...”
He gets up to move in the direction of the kitchen - I can smell the chips now - and adds, “Got a brilliant deal on a cottage near Porthleven last year ... Are you ready to eat?”
The kitchen is pretty spartan but a serious place with many different kinds of food processors parked discretely in various corners, and gadgets and things that look like instruments of medieval torture hanging from hooks all along one side above a worktop. We sit at the breakfast bar and eat our chips out of the paper - albeit resting on a plate to save the counter top from getting mucky - with our fingers, taking turns to dip our chips in the bowls of ketchup, mustard and mayonnaise - a man with a firm grip on condiments.
“Do you cook a lot?” I ask, wondering if I dare mention veganism - it’s a childhood trait - the veganism, not daring to ask inane questions. As a child, struggling between the demon in the bottle and the fairy in the tree, I managed to cook myself vegetables pretty often - steamed in the microwave - but meat and fish were always in short supply. Actually, the smell and taste of animal fat just makes me want to heave; always did.
“When I’m in the mood ... it’s not much fun cooking for myself; most of the time, I can’t be bothered. My favourite is Thai food. What about you?”
“I like it too; I’m vegan ...”
“That’s great! I eat eggs and dairy but no meat or fish. So, what did you think of the holiday idea?”
“Sounds okay ... but we’ve only just met.”
“I know ... it could just be a holiday ... I know I could use one, and you look like you need one.”
“Thanks!”
“I didn’t mean it nasty ... but you do ...”
I have no illusions about myself - pale and thin like a boiled scarecrow. He’s all bristling with health and hair that shines and teeth that sparkle and a dog that does what it’s told - cunt.
“I know; I’d like to go away ... let’s think about it ... when were you thinking?”
“A month from now; weather will be good but the kids won’t have broken up, and we’d have the pick of the crop for a fortnight ...”
“You’d have to drive down because I don’t have a car.”
“Fine ... What time you gotta get back for the dog tonight?”
“By eleven; otherwise, he’ll knock the kitchen bin over and spread the contents over the lounge. I watched that whisperer thing on the telly ... what a fucking waste of time.”
“If Brillo acts up, I smack his bum and use my telling off voice.”
“See that scar there ...” I pull up my sleeve to show him a recent scar on my forearm, “that’s what I got for using my telling off voice ...”
He’s grinning.
“What? It fucking hurt.”
“Don’t doubt it ... ruled by a fucking Chihuahua ...”
“I know ... pathetic.”
“You got two hours before lights out ...”
“Did you? ...”
“Yeah ... Did you?”
“It’s been a while ...”
“... Me too, actually ... Come on ...