Friday, January 4, 2019

When it rains...

It pours!

Some stories just pour out. I mean it pours and pours!

Brief Knights is an escort agency - and it popped into my mind somewhere, sometime ago. The first of three short stories burst out of me like that alien did in the movie. Pop--it was there. PAYED FOR PLAY is making rounds to betas but it's a go for this month.

WHEN HE PLAYS has the same crashing forth alien tendencies--it just won't stop. (Story still in progress and unedited)

“I painted with love until she died. I never expected to meet him.”

Weston Tucker overhears a young man lament finding adequate living space or having to return to his father’s home. Wes notices perfectly manicured fingers pull out a credit card few can name on sight alone. Young and far too handsome, Wes thinks to knock the evidently spoiled brat, whose family name he recognizes, down a peg or two. With paint stained fingers, he proffers his card offering a room in return for having the inside of his home painted.

“He’s crotchety, mean, and nasty. He smells so damn good, he’s soft, gentle…”

Hunter Gold’s job as an escort for Brief Knights has to end or his father threatens to cut him off. At the same time, his roommate leaves Hunt in a fix for housing. A few more escort assignments are booked but he takes on a job painting for a recluse to have a place to live and a small salary until he can straighten things out and find a real job. Hunt never dreamed of becoming enamored of the enigmatic loner.
MM Romance

ooking in his refrigerator was depressing as hell. Nothing. Not even an egg. How had he let things go for so long? Why hadn’t he replaced his housekeeper? It’d been two months and Weston Tucker lacked energy to even contact an agency and go through the bullshit of interviewing again and wondering if they’d invade his privacy. Rummage through his personal things. “Damn.”
Snatching open his pantry door, he stepped in and scanned shelves. Less salt, low fat, or no fat soup. Really? He suspected the daft woman was in collusion with every health nut in the fucking nation. Patting his stomach, Wes decided he was in no way overweight. If anything, he was too damn thin. Five-foot nine, one hundred and fifty-five pounds hardly qualified as overweight. Skinny is what his last friend… Fuck him too.
“Screw the whole goddamn world.” He walked to his bathroom and peered in the mirror. “I’ve got abs. Somewhere.” Procrastination. Go buy food or hire someone and wait to eat. “Eat nasty ass soup.” Attempting to get oil paint off his hands proved impossible.
Walls stood patched, primed, and ready.
He also fired the house painter.
“Jesus!” Rambling from room to room, he had eyed various points requiring attention. An older, large home not far from the beach in Ocean Park, California, it was beautiful when he bought it loving the idea some 1920s silent screen star owned it until the day she died. Wes supposed it wasn’t so bad now. Paint inside and out, minor repairs. “Food first.”
He scrubbed absentmindedly at his hands again. This paint had nothing to do with his house. His newest oil painting dried as he unsuccessfully searched out something for lunch.
“Good Lord, I’ve got to go out!” Leaving his home gave him a fit of nerves. “I’ve become a freaking recluse.”
Heading toward his inside garage entrance, he grabbed keys to the SL on his way by the kitchen counter which looked redone in a new, exciting material—clusterfuck of mail. He prayed his car not only had gas, but that it would start. Wes hadn’t driven it for…it’d been three, four months. “It’s new, jackass. Better start.” It did.
Backing from the garage, he knocked over a trash receptacle.
Could the day get worse?
Finding an empty space in front of the Fresh Food Mart on Lincoln Boulevard outside of Santa Monica caused Wes to believe things may be looking up. He considered going another mile or so to the burger place he loved and loading up on enough burgers and fries to last until he found a new housekeeper. “Crying out loud, shop already.”
Cooking steaks and chops posed no problem so he bought five packages of each. There were also bags of frozen, microwavable veggies and french fries. Not a damn thing resembling rabbit food in the shopping buggy, Wes headed to the only open checkout lane.
Two men in front of him chatted amicably. Both young, one looked like those goths he’d seen everywhere lately. The other man—a blond Adonis. Absolutely gorgeous. Surveying items in his basket, Wes unsuccessfully attempted ignoring the conversation.
“Look, if your father writes you off, you’ll be destitute.”
“Shit, Scott, I wouldn’t say that. There’s always Brief Knights. In fact, I have two bookings which should hold me for a short while.”
“Yeah, but do you want to pay yours and Ban’s share of rent another month?”
“Could but would rather not. I’ve got to deal with Herm Gold at some point.”
Herm Gold! Ears pricked up.
“He handled my coming out in high school but the agency will never be to his liking. I need to find interim housing. Buy time. In any case, I must come up with something by week’s end. I do not wish to move home.”
Familiar with the name Gold, Wes eyed the man stick a black credit card into the reader. Pretty ass is hardly suffering. If only… God, no. Leave the past where it belongs.
In the past.
Items bagged, Blondie yanked the faulty sack up and chaos ensued. Everything dropped straight to the floor. A jar of olives broke sending brine everywhere. “Aww, fuck.” He looked at Wes’s feet. “Sorry, man.”
“No problem.”
“Shit, your shoes will be a mess.”
Wes studied his feet. They used to be good shoes. Leather soiled with a rainbow of colors from splatters of paint looked worn and unpresentable. “I have others.” He peered at the blond, saw the resemblance and had to avert his eyes. Before his brain could halt his mouth, he blurted. “I have a room for rent.”
“Sorry, didn’t mean to eavesdrop.” He wiped at his feet with a paper towel the clerk handed over. “I’d be willing to let you have a room if you paint my house. Actually, it’s a bungalow and it’s separate from the house.”
“That’s all? Paint?”
“Well, it’s rather large.”
“Dude, a private place? I’d paint the fucking Washington Monument as long as it keeps me from under my father’s thumb.”
Digging a business card from his wallet, Wes passed it to the man. “Weston Tucker.”
“Thanks a lot. I’m Hunter Gold. Can I stop by this afternoon?”
“Yes.” From the corner of his eye, Wes caught the dark-haired man lasciviously glancing up and down his body. Facing him, West said, “Perhaps your friend will help you move your things over the weekend.”
The guy winked. “That’d be my pleasure.”
Coming out. Why hadn’t he added it up. Wes just invited a very gorgeous, very young gay man to camp out at his place. He went back to dabbing shoes.
Not having been on a date in ages, nor seeking companionship, Wes groaned and peered up to see if there were signs either man heard. He had a thing for young, muscular studs. The blond was perfect in every way, but this man should be hands off forever. “Yes, well, you have my address and I’ll be in all afternoon.”
Could it get worse? Of course.
“You’re awesome. Hey, I’ll call you WT. Weston is too damn formal if we’re going to be roomies.”
God help me!

Growl and roar-it's okay to let the beast out. - J. Hali Steele

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