Stuff (The Bristol Collection)

Dedication

For Andy, who helped me cope through “interesting times”.

Also, my eternal thanks to my editor, Linda, my crit partners (and good friends) Jamie Merrow and Lou Harper, and all my pre-readers who did a superb job at very short notice: Jennifer, Blaine D. Arden, Prue Tremayne, Kristin, and Jen Read.

Thank you all so much!

Chapter One

He should have left by the tradesman’s entrance. Mas could see that now. Instead he had to navigate his way through the labyrinthine structure of Crowther’s at one of the busiest hours of the day, with a backpack that clinked with every step he took.

A woman wearing a frown and one of those ridiculously expensive yet shapeless designer dresses gestured to him. Fuck. He was still wearing the bloody uniform, wasn’t he? Mas ignored her, carried on walking and tore his name badge off. Tobias Maslin, it declared. They’d refused to put just Mas on the badge. He should have heard the warning bells back then.

To think he’d given two of the best years of his youth to this place, and then they’d gone and fired him just like that. Okay, so Penny hadn’t looked happy about “letting him go”, but difficult economic climate or not, he was now the one with no bloody income, a maxed-out overdraft and last month’s rent well overdue. It wasn’t even like he had the excuse of having a habit to feed or anything—not unless the habit was going out dancing in sexy clothes every weekend and having the cheek to want a shoebox of his own rather than sharing a place. Life was just way too expensive.

So that was why he’d swiped the bag and the bottles on his way back out through the warehouse. Always a black market in perfume, wasn’t there? His mate Keith would be happy to take it off his hands, and at least then Mas would be able to pay off some of the overdue rent. Even if he went to sign on right now, by the time his benefits kicked in, his landlord probably would have kicked him out.

Layabout.
Jobless loser. Thief.
The little voice he hadn’t heard in years started up an irritating refrain. It sounded just like the minister in the Baptist church his mum had dragged him along to. One of the many churches she insisted on taking him to until he was old enough to stay at home, pleading that threats of eternal damnation really weren’t his idea of Sunday morning entertainment. Not when he could be playing his Xbox instead.

Jobless loser. Thief. Whore.

“I’m not a whore,” he muttered to himself, but the twinge in his arse begged to differ. He might not have agreed to Grant’s grand plan of setting him up in a flat as a kept boy, but he’d certainly allowed the bloke to wine and dine him on the understanding he’d put out afterwards. There’d even been a couple of presents included in the deal.

Was there a black market in designer undies and used buttplugs? Keith would probably know.

Mas ducked through tableware—a shortcut most shoppers never realised was there as the exit signs directed them on the longest route through the building possible—and headed down the main staircase to the ground floor. Cosmetics lived here, and he did his best to summon up a smile in case Bernarde spotted him. Fortunately the man in question seemed absorbed in flirting with a matronly looking woman while buffing her nails and attempting to flog her an overpriced manicure kit she could probably buy for a tenth of the price down at Superdrug.

God, was that where Mas would be reduced to getting his grooming shit from in future? He’d got kind of used to the staff discounts and free samples working here had always furnished him with. Perhaps if he blew Bernarde occasionally… But no, men like that really didn’t flip his switch. He’d been fun for a quick suck and tug in the warehouse every now and then, when the thrill of being on his knees and possibly getting caught by his boss added to the excitement, but Mas couldn’t see that translating to the outside world anywhere. Bernarde was hardly toppy.

There was no easy central aisle to get to the front doors, and Mas wove his way through the shoppers, ducking and dodging their designer bags and—God help him—designer pooches.

Ellie waved at him from the L’Oreal concession, and he waved back. He must have looked like he was just headed out on his lunch break. Nothing to see here. No outward sign of his thoroughly dismal circumstances. Not unless you counted the bulging backpack.

Still, life would sort itself out again. It always did eventually. This was a temporary wobble, nothing more, nothing less. It’d give him a chance to rethink. Maybe he’d give Grant’s offer serious consideration: a flat of his own in Hotwells—which was definitely the swanky side of the city—all living expenses included, with the proviso that he was there as a convenient arse for Grant to use whenever he was in town on business without the wife in tow. Which, come to think of it, was most weekends.

Then he really would be a whore, but Mas was fucked if he’d let some internalised bullying preacher make him feel guilty about it. He had nothing to be ashamed of. Nothing. He wasn’t the one cheating on his wife, after all.

There were two security guards at the main door. Something squeezed Mas’s chest, like a belt being cinched in tighter and tighter. Ant was an all right bloke, but his boss, Walter, was a little Hitler of the highest order.

And he was staring in Mas’s direction and speaking into his walkie-talkie.

Fuck.

Keep walking. Just act normal. No one saw you take anything. They’re not going to search your bag.
Mas ordered his sweat glands to behave, and they sort of complied, although he still felt unpleasantly clammy under his arms. He summoned up his cheekiest grin for Ant, before toning it down to the respectful-and-submissive expression he figured Walter might best respond to.

Walter glared back and moved to block the doors.

“Hey Ant,” Mas called. “How’s things? Your littl’un started walking yet? Bet she’s running rings round you now.”

Before Ant could speak, Walter cut in. “Mr. Maslin, I’m going to need to examine the contents of that bag you’re carrying.”

“What, my lunch bag?” Mas pointed at his messenger bag.
Ignore the backpack,
he tried to transmit through telepathy. “You feeling peckish? Coz I’ve gotta warn you, I’ve only got cheese and Marmite sandwiches. White bread too. From Asda. You know, that stuff that’s only like, twelve pence a bag.” Walter was one of those health freaks who inhaled horrible-looking salads full of lentils and bloody great buckets of protein shakes. Their break room fridge was full of them, all neatly labeled in Walter’s prissy print.

“Bag. Now. You do know we have security cameras in the warehouse, don’t you? Your little performances haven’t gone unnoticed, you know.”

Ant gave him an apologetic smirk and spread his hands out in a kind of whole body shrug.

It sunk in. Him and Bernarde. He’d thought they were out of range of the cameras. “You’ve been watching me? You bloody pervert. Bet you’ve gone and recorded it for wank fodder too.”

Walter just folded his arms, making his muscles bulge impressively. “You’ve been under observation for a while now. Your type is a threat to security.”

“My type?” That band of tension in Mas’s chest squeezed until something ruptured inside him. Anger bubbled up, white hot and righteous. “My bloody type?” He was practically yelling now, but it felt good after the morning he’d had. “What, the good-with-colours type?”

“No, the rule-breaking type,” Walter started saying, but Mas ranted over him.

“For fuck’s sake! You realise this is blatant discrimination. Here, you can have the bloody bag. And I suggest you make use of the contents, Mr. Stinky Pits!”

Mas thrust the backpack at Walter’s chest with enough force to knock him off his feet. For a brief moment, he enjoyed the sight of the rent-a-thug sitting on the floor, then the thought of what the man might do to him when he got to his feet splashed large across his imagination in vivid colour.

Time to run.

Mas dodged through the crowds meandering around Cabot Circus, shrugging out of his navy blazer as he ran. Fuck it. Wasn’t like he needed it anymore, was it? He thrust it in the direction of a beggar he passed. “It’s yours, mate,” he called, before zipping in front of a loitering group of teenage girls. They were walking, but very slowly as they chatted and shoved at each other. One of them was even texting as she walked. Mas ducked down so he wouldn’t be seen.

“Oi, what you doin’?” one of the girls said around her bubblegum, but she looked amused rather than outraged.

“Can you just keep walking for a moment,” Mas pleaded, batting his eyelashes in the same way he did to persuade older guys to buy him drinks. Seemed to work on younger girls too. “I need to hide from someone. A security guard.” He caught a glimpse of Walter’s shining bald head over the girl’s shoulder. He was about twenty metres away and appeared to be scanning the crowds in every direction. “Shit. Don’t let him see me.” He’d be sure to draw Walter’s attention if he started running again.

Ms. Bubblegum looked him up and down, then grinned. “You in trouble? Yeah, we’re always in trouble, ain’t we, girls?” There was a chorus of agreement from the others. Now that Mas looked at them properly, he noticed three of them were smoking, they all wore way too much makeup, and they all had that bad girl slouch-and-pout thing going on.

“Please help. He’s going to mash my face to a pulp if he catches me. You wouldn’t want that on your conscience, would you?”

“It is a pretty face.” Ms. Bubblegum cocked her head to one side and appeared to be considering it. “All right. Shaz, give ’im your hoodie.” A tall black girl flung an orange hooded top in his direction, which he shrugged on gratefully, pulling the hood as far down over his face as possible.

Ms. Bubblegum gave him a wink. “I’m Bex.” She blew a pink bubble, then grinned flirtatiously at him as she pulled the strings of burst gum back into her mouth.

“Mas.”

Bex put her arm through his. “Come on then, Mas. I’ll get you out of here. The rest of you, see if you can distract the guard by flashing your tits or somethin’.”

Shaz grabbed hold of his other arm. Her grip wasn’t anywhere near as gentle as Bex’s. “I’ll be getting my hoodie back off you as soon as we’re out of sight.”

“Of course. Wouldn’t want to nick it off you, even though it is lovely.” It was stretching the truth, as the shoddy stitching was painfully obvious and the whole thing reeked of cheap perfume. “But you know, I think you’re safe. Orange just really isn’t my colour, darling.”

Bex giggled. “You’re talking like that bloke off of the telly, ain’t he, Shaz? You know, that what’s-his-name. Gok Wan. ’Ere, are you a bender too?”

Mas felt Shaz’s grip tighten and wondered what the correct answer was. He never normally had to bother coming out to anyone as they could tell pretty much the moment he opened his mouth—if not the moment they clapped eyes on him—which meant he hadn’t had much in the way of practice at it. Did he dare risk telling the truth, only for them to hand him over to Walter in disgust? But maybe he’d be okay now. They’d moved a fair distance from where he’d spotted Walter scanning the crowd, and there was no sound of pursuit.

God, things were bad if he was considering going back in the closet just to win the favour of a bunch of gum-chewing teenagers. He hadn’t come screaming out of it for nothing. “Yeah, I’m gay,” he said, proud that only a moment had passed while he thought it through.

Bex leaned in closer and squeezed his arm, but it felt companionable rather than aggressive. “Ooh, so you must know a bit about giving blowjobs, right? Me and Shaz was arguing about this the other day, weren’t we?”

Shaz grunted.

“See,” Bex continued, “I reckon blokes like it best when they come in your mouth and you swallow all their jizz, but Shaz reckons you’ve gotta pull off at the last minute and let them give you a facial. But I don’t like getting spunk on my face. So which is it, if you really want to impress them?”

“Erm.” How old were they? “Depends on the bloke, I suppose,” he hedged. “Some are more into one, some into the other.”

“Yerr, but how d’you tell which is which? Coz I bloody hate swallowing spunk, don’t I?” Shaz spat on the ground. “Tastes fucking rank, it does.”

Mas was happy to just let guys do whichever they wanted, but that wasn’t exactly advice he wanted to give anyone else. “You shouldn’t worry about what they want,” he said firmly. “And you shouldn’t let anyone pressure you into doing something you’re not interested in. What’s important is what you want, and they should be bloody well grateful they’re getting their bits anywhere near your mouths. In fact, I bet they are.”