Sebastian: The Complete Series

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This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used factiously. Other names, characters and incidents are products of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

 

Knights to Remember

Complete Series – Books 1 - 10

All rights reserved.

Copyright©2015 by Nicole Colville

Cover design: Book Cover by Design. Kellie Dennis

Edited by Jessica McKenna

 

No part of this document may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or otherwise without prior permission by the author. This is an erotic book and contains graphic sexual content which should only be read by people sixteen and over.

The author would like to thank Yate’s Wine Bar, McDonalds, The Hilton Hotel – Leeds, The Connaught Hotel – Mayfair, London, The Royal London Hospital, BMW, Mercedes Benz, and finally, the city of Leeds itself for inspiring this book.

These books were first published as part of a monthly series and are still available individually. This compilation includes all of the previous books in a newly formatted book.

 

Sebastian Knight is an ordinary nineteen year old who struggles to juggle his hated bartending job and his university studies as well as fitting in time for partying and family.

When he walks out on his job and finds his car has been clamped with a boot, fate steps in and offers him a chance to change his life.

The amazing opportunity for him to earn some easy money is thrown into his lap by one hot George Clooney type at the bar one night, and he jumps at the chance to become a male escort. But the very man who set him on this journey is the one who keeps calling him up and forcing Sebastian to feel for him when all he wants is to enjoy his newfound freedom and money.

 

This bestselling short story series has now been compiled into one book.

 

For all of you who adore Sebastian as I do. For all you who messaged me and demanded more each month. For all of you who loaned this series on Kindle Unlimited and asked for one book which you could buy and keep. For all of you who secretly wish you could say half the things Sebastian does. For all the new people who have just found Sebastian and have nooo idea what you’re getting into, I envy and thank you. For anyone who loves to laugh, cry, throw huge tantrums – this book is for you.

Go grab your tomorrow, and never let go!

Nicole

 

 

C
heryl’s voice always cut right through me, but
that
night it sounded even worse than normal because I felt like shit and I didn’t want to deal with my stressed out manager.

It was a Sunday night—a quiet one at that—and the bar had been dead for the last hour. I'd gotten so bored I'd actually wiped down all the tables, emptied the bottle bins and refilled the fridges. It was at that point I gave up and decided to do nothing for a while. I’d only just leaned against the bar, playing with my phone discreetly in between my folded arms, when the megabitch Cheryl popped her snotty nose over my shoulder and spotted me.

“No phones at work. You know that. We don’t pay you to stand around and check out your Facebook status.”

I was making loads of whiny noises and lemon-sucking faces at her as she walked off. She must have seen I'd done everything I was supposed to and I didn’t have anything left to occupy myself with. That's the trouble with being a student; you have to work shitty jobs you don’t give two fucks about, but you need them because without those shitty arse boring jobs you don’t get to survive.

I
hated
working at Yate’s Wine Bar.

It’s one of those really cheap places where you can buy a bottle of wine for less than five pounds and dance to cheesy old disco tunes. It’s mainly filled up with people at the beginning of the evening because that way you can get pissed before you move on to a better place where the drinks are three times as expensive. It’s like drinking at home price-wise, but you're sitting in a bar with loads of music and you're not bothered about the state you leave it in after you throw up all over the floor or drop your red wine on the carpet.

It used to amuse me watching all the thirty-something women coming in, getting four bottles between them, or a bottle each, and then watching them slowly descend through the stages of drunkenness.

The first stage is always the one where they're at their soberest, which means they still give a crap about how they act and what they look like. They sit down, having a polite conversation, catching up and giggling at the overly tattooed men which always seem to catch their eye. They give the men flirty, coy looks and make sure their dodgy hair extensions look just right and apply their lip gloss every five seconds, just in case.

That's the first half of the bottle gone, and then comes the second stage. You know the one, the one where they apply their lip gloss a
little
too thickly and a little less often, and their hair is starting to look rough from them tossing it over and over their shoulders while ‘flirting’ with the guy who looks like he served two to five for armed robbery in prison. They’re all super loud, and those short skirts and fat thighs are on show for anyone and everyone.

The third stage comes after the whole bottle has gone. The lip gloss is now smudged around their mouths and looks like they’ve just been French kissing a pound of butter, those skirts are now hitched up to show wayyyy too much arse cheek and grubby-looking grey knickers, or God help me, the occasional thong straining in between two dimpled, plump, spotty arse cheeks, like a cheese wire going through stinky white French cheese. Yeah, and they're all over the prison break pricks like they’ve forgotten all about their husbands and five kids waiting for them at home.

That's when I start to turn away, but it’s like a car crash. You kind of have to look, you can't help it. No matter how many times I say,
Sebastian, just don’t do it. You know this stage. You know what you'll see will leave you permanently damaged in some way
, but then I have to serve one of them—another four bottles, God help me—and then I have to watch them slip into total oblivion.

The last stage before the total paralytic abominations they will become involves another half bottle being drunk. The lip gloss is now smeared beyond recognition—they’ve given up caring about personal appearance by now—and they're gyrating on the dance floor, acting all Beyoncé-like. They look like total twats and not like some sex goddess, but bless them, they keep on going. The laughter is now at ear-splitting squeals and the shoes are coming off so they can let their cankles relax while they cling onto some poor guy who was just passing them to go for a pee.

I hated going out onto the floor to collect glasses because the gropings I got were obscene, and no matter how much I turn up the gayness, they just didn’t buy it and kept trying to convince me all I needed was a good seeing to with one of them and I’d be straight as a Roman road.

Yeah, that never happened. Never ever, never. Na ah.

That was the downside to working in a straight place and being attractive, because to drunken, lusty women who are on their first outing since their last baby, I looked even better.

“Look, love, the last thing I'd want to stick my dick into would be something that a seven pound baby just forced its way out of, okay? I'm an arse man. I like men, get it? Now take your hand off my dick and move on before I get security.”

That got me a great laugh from all the woman’s friends and a scowl from the woman with her hand on my dick.

I should’ve taken that job with Andy at the gay dive he loves, but I just knew I'd have spent all my hard earned cash in there at the end of the night, trying to pull some random bloke away for a quick fuck when I should be saving my money to pay the bills and buy food.
See, I can be grown up, Mum.

I'd been working at Yate’s for about five months and I’d reached my limit of being chatted up by bipolar, drunken housewives, working shitty hours, smelling like a brewery and dressing in a shit uniform. I'd also had enough of the megabitch chomping on my arse at every opportunity about any little thing she could find. Which was nothing, by the way, because I'm fucking good. I was the best bartender there, and I could be sweet and look pretty for those women as long as they stayed on their side of the bar and didn’t sexually assault me while I tried to do my job.

I mean, having some muscular top all over me wouldn’t make me lose my cool so much, that's welcome attention, one I'd more than likely take up at the end of my shift, but come on, people, I'm gay. I've never been with a woman. I could have a supermodel all over me and not get it up for her, so those trollops never had a chance.

I'd already decided to leave. I was going to be a grown up and look for another job before I handed in my notice, but after the Saturday night I had and then the boring Sunday where I'd been berated and bullied all night by the megabitch, well, that was it. I just left. I strode right on into her messy little cupboard she called an office and told her straight to her spiky, pale, bitch-looking face that I'd had enough of her shitty attitude, the bad hours and the sexual harassment from the trollops then I swung my fine arse out of there.

I regretted it, like, almost as soon as I left. I had a huge electric bill to split between my two other house mates, and I knew I didn’t have enough to pay them. My mate Tony and another
kind
of
friend who we both know from university lived with us—we called him Bruce, after Bruce Lee. Not because he's anything remotely as good-looking or as fit as Bruce Lee, but because he thinks he is. Yeah, his brown belt in karate really makes him think he's the next legend just waiting to be discovered. Stupid queen.

I worked on the outskirts of Leeds city centre, not far past the train station which I’d parked in that morning. I knew I shouldn’t because you get your wheels clamped with some big yellow metal cage thingy and parking tickets, but I hadn’t woken up in time to catch the bus and I was forced to drive in.

Before I even got to where I'd left my car, I knew I was proper screwed. I'd gotten a ticket for parking in a private car park, and to top that, I'd been clamped because I hadn’t come to collect it during normal working hours. That was going to be another hundred or so pounds I couldn't pay—besides, the shitty old Nissan Micra I drove was only worth two hundred at the most. I decided to let them tow it away. I'd call them up the next day and say I couldn’t pay and they could have the car. I grabbed my stuff from inside and stuffed them all in a rucksack, taking all the expensive stuff which I wanted to keep and leaving all the rubbish for them to sort out.

Walking through town always made me edgy because at pub closing times all the nutters come out, jarred up and looking for someone to have a go at. Normally I'm with a group and feel a little safer, but that night it was just little me and I felt I stood out like Dolly Parton at a Marilyn Manson gig. Being gay and being around drunk, straight thugs would make even the most confident and out gay bloke attempt to play straight.

I don’t feel like I prance around and walk with an overtly ‘gay type’ swagger that straight dickheads pick up on, but I felt the need to make sure I walked nice and stiff, keeping my hands in my tight pockets, watching my feet hitting the ground as I sped past the emptying bars and pissed up patrons leaving them.

There's always someone puking their guts up or taking a piss down some alleyway and I had to jump over a stream of piss so I didn’t get my new bright white trainers all messed up. Unfortunately, I landed right in the path of a group of forty year old blokes on a stag night. Just like that, I was grabbed and flung into the arms of a burly six footer wearing a pink tutu and a blow up doll on his back—the groom to be, I presumed.

Somehow, in their drunken logic, I was up for a dance in the street with this fool, and I must have had some gay rainbow hovering over my head because they all knew I was a gay boy and up for a good time. Like anyone, including his future wife, would have a good time with his limp dick. After pushing my way through them, I found my way to other end of town.

To get back home, I had to catch the night bus—which no one in their right mind wants to do, but I had to. I had one ear plug from my mp3 player in and the other listening out for anyone who could attempt to rob me or rape me.
God damn it, Mum.
That's her fucking fault for making me think like that.

So, there I was, walking in a really straight way—but not in a convincingly straight way according to the drunken gaggle of druids in the stag party following me—down the long tunnel underneath the railway tracks. It’s called Dark Arches and that's exactly what it is, a really dark and long tunnel which has shitloads of spooky archways that have been converted into car parks and sandwich shops. There are some which were just left empty and they freaked me out the most because it’s like some black hole which every kind of scary monster resides in and makes me shiver and speed up so I can pass them quicker.

My bus stop is at the end of it, right opposite the Hilton Hotel. So not only do I have to stand there and wait for the peasant wagon to come for me, but I have to be reminded just how shit my life is by watching the Porches’ and Mercedes’ pull up and the hot guys in suits escorting their blonde, too-young-for-them girlfriends into the hotel for a good fuck and a morning swim in the pool.

It was at this time, two a.m., that I had to pee, and I wasn’t going to pee against the wall like the ignorant piece of shit behind me was doing, so I crossed the road and decided I was going to use the toilet in the Hilton. I just swaggered past the doorman, looking like I had every right to be going in there, and then swanned past the concierge, throwing her a sexy smile and a quick wink as I headed up the escalator to the second floor where the bar was.

I knew the layout of the place because, believe it or not, I actually got turned down for a job there two years ago when I’d just finished school and was looking for a weekend job.

Now stupidly, or not so stupidly on their part, they offered free glasses of champagne and me and my house mate Tony took advantage of that fact by drinking too much and getting tipsy. It was only for a job as a waiter, but the way they all acted in there we were applying for the secret service or something. Anyway, long story short, I got drunk, said a few inappropriate things to the woman interviewing me then I picked some older bloke in a suit and disappeared upstairs with him for a quick fuck while Tony waited for me in the bar.

I found the bathroom and swore when I saw how bad my hair looked. I pulled out my comb and ran it through my hair. It was naturally mousy brown, but I hated it so I had some blond highlights added the year before. I had this stupid, high maintenance style which I spent way too much time on, but it was worth it because I knew I looked good.

I quickly freshened up with a splash of cold water and my favourite aftershave, and then I checked out my tired blue eyes, rubbing them gently and trying to get them to look less puffy.

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