The Beast of Bodmin Moor Page 19

  Classy. Not. I had hoped there was Method in your madness, at least.

  Ha. Ha. Cut me some slack, I’ve already nailed ‘jackass’. Joaquin should be quaking in his clown shoes, by rights.

  “Gin please…I should have some tonic in it, to make it last. One of us should p’raps do standing up straight…if only to hold the other one up.”

  “Coming up.”

  “Oh, I wish…” Phin sighed, limpid-eyed and lethal.

  “You are deadly.” Jake informed him, adding ice and a slice to the gin.

  “Deadly? Me? I’m on my bestest behaviour. You’re the big bad beastie, remember.”

  “If only I could do forgetting… but that doesn’t lessen your liabiliti-liness.” Jake managed to mumble. Eventually.

  “You should try red lorry, yellow lorry next.” Phin grinned, fishing for the lemon slice in his glass. When he lifted it aloft in triumph, a globule of liquid trickled down his finger, glinting in the light as he brought it to his mouth. Ripe lips gleamed with juice when he popped the glistening fruit between them, then began to pull it back. When the pulp slowly emerged, sucked dry, a silvery strand of errant lemon straggled over his plump lower lip. Tantalizing. Taunting Jake from the other side of the gorge. Two more hours to endure. This had been a very bad idea.

  Phin’s tongue had just flickered out to catch the stragglers when a clutch of punters crowded the bar, trying to catch Jake’s eye. All armed with (not that I’m dying of thirst or anything, despite standing here for a nanosecond…but now would be a good time to acknowledge me. If it’s not too much trouble) laser gazes. A typical shift lurched from interminable periods spent twiddling his thumbs, to flurries of four-at-a-time to serve after a sudden stampede to Jake’s section.

  It was a good fifteen minutes before he was done, in which he’d barely had time to glance Phin’s way while providing a gaggle of students with another round of snakebites and black. This, as one of their regulars launched into a lengthy soliloquy on Plymouth Argyle’s less than sterling season. Quite why imparting this particular opinion never got old Jake had yet to fathom; it was repeated ad infinitum every shift without fail.

  When Jake was finally free, he found that Phin had tucked himself into the corner closest to the wall. Possibly in a futile bid to be less conspicuous, when he stood, as lofty as a lone poppy on scrubby moorland. Too tall, too bright, too beautiful, to blend in. Anywhere. Far too Phin for comfort…while wearing skinny jeans and forced to snag bags of crisps from the bottom shelf with excruciating regularity. Is the chip shop shut, f’chrissakes?

  Last time Jake had glanced Phin’s way, he’d been gazing around the room, people watching; head tilted to one side with an abstracted interest, much as a guest from another planet might regard some very curious creatures indeed.

  On this occasion, Phin had a companion. A very attractive and convivial companion. Her elbow was propped on the bar, chin supported on the heel of her hand as she gazed up at him with adoring eyes. Rocking her hips from side to side as she listened with rapt attention and coquettish lashes. Jake couldn’t focus on Phin’s words, being far too busy glaring a hole through her head. Possibly wiser—far less preferable—to tearing it off with their teeth, which might not go down too well with the other patrons of the pub.

  Party pooper.

  Phin’s smile was soft, those huge orbs lustrous, as he spoke. His focus total, unwavering, as if she were the only person in the room. The sane, rational part of Jake’s brain pointed out that Phin did everything that intently. Logic argued that he was trying to do concentrating in order to be po-lite.

  But Jake could not ‘do concentrating’ on anything except the teeth-shattering tinkle of her girlish laughter as she ran a coy fingertip around the rim of her glass. Before raising the finger to her mouth. Jake’s top lip began to quiver as she lapped at the liquid with a kittenish tongue…then lowered her hand. Jake knew exactly where it was heading. Jack was computing the trajectory of her arm. But their instincts sensed it with unerring accuracy, even before it sullied Phin’s wrist.

  Fuck. He could smell her. Jake was going to vomit.

  His guts were writhing with toxic rage, phantom claws scrabbling with frustrated fury. Sweat was beading on his brow, prickling down his spine in a cloying shiver of heat. A trillion tiny stings like the snap of rubber bands skittered across his skin as Jake’s shoulders heaved with the force of the breath bludgeoning his lungs.

  He had to get out, get the hell out, as far from Phin as possible. Fast.

  33. Phin

  Phin could tell that Jake was more than a mite merry from the moment his face lit up with a daftly grin. It was the most unguarded, open expression he’d ever seen on it, unless, of course, there was a spot of slurping in progress, but that was ‘cause and effect’. Consequences.

  Jake’s big ol’ beam when he turned around and saw Phin was more excessive than said sight could account for, unless tipple-time was added into the equation. It wasn’t just the radiance of his smile; his hair was a smidge mussed and he seemed to have mopped all spillages with his T-shirt. It looked a very lot as if he’d been ridden hard and put away wet. Mmm… Being greeted by such a giddy grin suggested Jake had possibly drunk more than he’d earned; which he denied, then confirmed in the very next breath.

  “I’ve only had…well, a few glasses. I was…I um, thought you weren’t coming.”

  Jake really did seem oddsome. Phin had spent the last two hours tootling around, willing away time, to stop himself turning up too early. He didn’t want to make Jake uncomfy by being a barnacle stuck to his bar, when he’d been worried Phin would get bored while he did working. The daftie had then gone and got more worried about his absence than Jake would have been if Phin was fed up.

  Squiffy Jake was as cute as a button, but also a bit baffling…and even more confounding than self-contained Jake. Phin was still trying to shoehorn the two into the same bag o’marbles when Jake was besieged by a barmy army of punters, most of whom would die of thirst if they weren’t served yesterday.

  Jake slinked off to attend to them, so Phin settled himself into a cosy corner to watch the bountiful bum wiggle as it worked. Bored? It was tricky to say which was more splendid; the sumptuous swell of the shrink-wrapped tush when Jake reached up to the drinks optic, which made his T-shirt rise to reveal a strip of honeyed skin and two twinkling dimples. Or that very view from another vantage point when he bent to grab a packet of crisps from beneath the bar. Both resulted in spine-swishing efficiency as Jake shimmied back and forth to the till, so it was a win-win, either way. Whatever he was paid, it wasn’t half ‘nuff for such sterling service.

  Phin’s wiggle watching was sadly cut short all-too soon by a very friendly miss who plonked her person beside him at the bar. She seemed to take up hyperspace for one so slender and short, which was unseemly enough, before she was beset by ants in her pants t’boot. Phin did focusing on the pointy fingernails she rested on her cheek after propping her elbow on the bar to cup her chin, then rustled up a few hues for the shade they were painted: Purple Passionpants…Violently Violet…Indigo Eye-ache…

  She seemed to want to chat-a-lot while she waited, so Phin was forced to do concentrating and small talking, rather than wait with breath abated for someone to buy a bag of crisps. The small talking was…bearable, but she was so flippin’ fidgety that bits of her kept brushing Phin, which was not. He had to do gritting his teeth and shrinking against the wall and focusing very hard on not doing hyperventilating. He didn’t like her one bit; she seemed to be starring in her own movie, except she was acting as if she was on stage. Those were very different types of pretending. One being big with expansive gestures, to reach the back of the theatre, and the other, all subtle shades of emotion, laden with nuance for the all-seeing eye of a camera.

  Hypersenses felt akin to sitting in a sound booth with far-too efficient headphones blaring full-blast, even at the best of times, which this was not. He was so scratchy he could scarce sit still
but couldn’t do so much as flinch when she was in his space and face and everywhere else. He was suffocating…even before she did the thing. Phin saw it coming from the corner of his eye but there was nowhere else to put his hands, other than on his head, which was already the highest one in the room. He would look like a helicopter about to take off. If only…

  It would have been horrid, even if she hadn’t just been sucking her finger, which was still slithery with spit when her hand landed on his. Phin almost, oh so nearly did slapping it off like a pesky mosquito. It was perched on his hand, spitted on. No one should have to sit still and let someone splat them with slobber, surely? He had done his damnedest to be considerate, but blimey… He would rather lie across a puddle and let her use him as a steppingstone, than suffer snail trails of slimy touch that would need scrubbing with a scouring pad.

  Jack was finally free to ride to Phin’s rescue when all-of-a-sudden he stopped dead. His features froze and the gold drained away—blanched to a worrying shade of waxen white—nostrils flaring as if he’d whiffed a nasty niff. He was trembling so visibly it looked as if a thousand volts were surging through his system, even before his body sort of spasmed in on itself. One second, he was all cramped up, crippled with pain, the next, he’d shot off as if the hounds of hell were after him.

  Phin didn’t think once; just threw a leg across the bar, almost taking out Miss Slobberchops with a flailing foot, mid-scramble, before setting off in hot pursuit. Jack would need—at the very least—someone to do stopping his hair from getting sick splattered. This was not a ‘least’ case scenario. Jack had not seemed green about the gills in a wee dram too many sort o’way; he’d been wracked with appendix-exploding agony.

  By the time Phin had dodged stacks of unpacked boxes and emerged into the hallway beyond, it was bereft of Jack. His co-worker stood, blinking, in his slipstream, more than a mite bewildered by his abrupt departure.

  “This way?” Phin pointed, nipping past her. There were only two doors leading off the hall, both left ajar; the first opened onto a staff/storage room, the second—at the far end—seemed to lead outside.

  “Yeah…he gasped ‘sorry, sick’ and bolted out back. I hope he’s okay, it’s almost time for last orders, can you take him home if I close up?”

  “Will do…” Phin called over his shoulder as he stepped out onto a deserted patch of pitted concrete. It was p’raps a parking bay for deliveries, with access to the cellar steps and space for a few staff cars.

  The watery moonlight was too dim to see beyond the darker shades of shadow that were big bins huddled in the far corner. Jack had looked in too much pain to do running anywhere fast, so those seemed to be Phin’s best bet. Closer up, he could see that there were three; brown, black, green…but far more important was the gut-wrenching groan—like shackles dragged across cobblestones—coming from behind them. The sound of agonized despair, hollow with anguish.

  “Jack?”

  “Gnnhh…g’way…” It was too deep, too raspy, to sound like Jack, but it still was.

  “I’m not leaving you alone in the dustbins, you daftie.” Phin informed him, coming to a stop about five feet away, taking care not to crowd him.

  “Fck. Off.” Jack growled, “Go!”

  Phin wasn’t doing listening. He was done with being considerate of aught but the fact Jake was hurting. He could be as miffy as he wished, Phin wasn’t doing as he was told, and that was that. The devil himself—let alone six burly care assistants—couldn’t shift Phin if he was dead set on staying, so Jack would have to lump it. The brown bin was skewed at an angle, making room for the dark shape crouched behind it. Jack was hunched on his elbows and knees, curled tight, forehead pressed to the ground, groaning.

  “Jack…” He was shuddering as if he was chilled to the bone, but when Phin hunkered down to reach out tentative fingers, they encountered a wave of heat as fiery as a furnace. Phin had barely brushed Jack’s back when he snapped his head up; jaw set rigid; teeth clenched in a tortured grimace. His beautiful eyes were ablaze with blue, as if backlit by Bunsen flame.

  “Leave me.” Jack’s snarl was the clang of a portcullis, cleaving Phin’s heart in two.

  “I…I can’t…leave you. On your own,” he managed to force through tears thick in his throat.

  “Y’can. Just. Go. I don’t want yonnagggh!” The latter was a blood curdling cry. Phin was less likely to walk away from it than sit down and do reading.

  “Let me help…” He placed a hesitant palm on Jack’s back, trying to offer the comfort he didn’t want. From Phin. But you were supposed to do stroking when someone you loved was upset; slow, smooth sweeps, soothing.

  Jack flinched from it as if Phin’s hand hurt, shrinking from the touch. A low sound of warning rattled in his throat when he tried to do clambering onto his hands and knees. He’d only struggled a little way up before his elbows buckled and Jack slumped down in a seething heap of frustration.

  “Phin! Go!” he snarled, about a choked-off breath before his spine spasmed and he threw his head back with a howl of pain.

  “Jack…has this happened before? Should I phone an ambulance?”

  “Yesss t’asss…” he hissed through clenched teeth. “No phone. Just Leave!”

  “No!”

  “Have to. I can’t…hold…” Jack spat, raising his head once more to glare at Phin with unworldly blue. Then he clamped his lids tight shut, stealing them away, alongside a noise a very lot like a whimper.

  “I …Hold?” Phin wondered, possibly for the last time. Ever. Jack moved so fast it sort of froze Phin to the spot. A whoosh of air hit his face when Jack sprang forwards, knocking Phin off the balls of his feet and bowling him over onto his back with Jake atop him.

  Instead of the steel trap grip on his throat Phin expected, his wrists were snatched up and pinned to the ground. He sensed, rather than saw, the shift in Jack’s focus when that stained-glass gaze flicked to Phin’s lips. His tongue flicked across his own, as if in anticipation of something tasty, then melded their mouths in a hot, hungry, hyper-plunder of lips, tongue and blowtorch breath.

  Kisses that made tumbleweed of greed. They were feast after famine, fuelled by a need that knew Too Much was never, ever enough. A knowledge that had no sooner seeped bone-deep than Jack snatched himself free with a sharp gasp and began to slither backwards, down Phin’s body.

  “Jack?”

  “Phin. I need…you. I—” A frantic tug on the button of Phin’s jeans was followed by the wrenching rasp of their zipper and a clutch of chill air. A brief flicker of relief followed the brush of his bare bum on fabric, then Phin did forgetting to care about trench coats and all such fripperies as gravel rash.

  Jack buried his nose into his down-there hair; inhaling as if he’d been starved o’breath. Phin’s head thunked against concrete, snatching his own away when he was engulfed in the molten heat of heady heaven.

  “Jaack!” A rolling rumble of sound greeted his name as Jack slid his palms beneath Phin’s butt to scoop him up, taking him in still further, until he’d all-but swallowed Phin’s cock. “Aahhh….” The slurps had morphed into a noise like a noshing dog, possibly the unseemliest sound Phin had ever heard. It sounded every bit as luscious as it felt. A kaleidoscopic onslaught of sensation that shattered the spectrum; a light shot blitz of unfathomable bliss. “Ah-I…have t’come…” Phin gasped, all-too soon in the face of much-too-much.

  Jack just flexed his fingers—and his throat—a spasm of muscle that made Phin’s entire system follow suit and his balls unleash themselves with nary a care for decorum. The shiver-shocks that sandblasted Phin’s brain sizzled through his body in a dazzling blitz of white-hot intensity. A low rumble of satisfaction vibrated his very bones when Jack gulped down every last drop before lapping Phin clean with lavish care.

  The sky was a blur of black smudged with starlight, the air a cool caress on damp skin, about a sublime sigh before Phin blinked the world back into focus. Only to find himself staring into luminous
pools of horror.

  “Nooooo!” Jack’s shout scythed through the night, shattering its silken darkness. “No. Had…a-deal. No. NO!” He was gulping air when he scrambled to his feet, clutching his guts, his face contorted in agony.

  “Jack!”

  “No! Phin. Run!”

  “I-No! I…won’t!” Phin clambered to his feet, a mite creakily, but preferable to trying to stand firm when lying on your back with your bits bared. His heart was hammering away, yet his bones felt as liquid as the rest of him was languid. He wasn’t sure he could do running if his life depended upon it. He might find out in a mo.

  The blue was aglow with aquamarine fire, ablaze with…feral intensity. Strangely familiar…sort of Jack’s eyes…but brighter, more brilliant still. But more, much more than this, was a sort of coiled energy rolling in waves as resonant as sound. A shimmering… power that enveloped Jack like wreathes of mist, even as it emanated from him. For an eternal second, they stood, locked in silent battle. A shriek of warring wills.