Alter Ego

By Meredith Russell

Book 1 in the Knowles Brook Series

Jay James is the confident, outgoing, flirtatious, lead guitarist of a 70s tribute band. But appearances can be deceiving. Jay James isn’t real. ‘Jay’ was born out of necessity and a way for James Hall to deal with life at home after coming out. James is shy and awkward, and can’t escape the shadow of his strained relationship with his mother. As ‘Jay’, James feels indestructible, like nothing can touch him, and he can have any man he wants. But is that really enough?

When ‘Jay’ meets Danny, he views him as just another potential conquest. Danny, however, has other ideas. The barman has no intention of being just another one night stand and leaves James surprised when he rebuffs his advances.

Danny Ashton is stuck, or at least that’s how he feels sometimes. Five years ago, he dropped out of university to look after his sick mother. He was never prepared for the hand he was dealt—a house to run, bills to pay, and a teenage brother to support. Wanting more than part time bar work, Danny applies for a job at the family run hotel in the village. When he’s called for interview, he isn’t expecting to see James there but the chance encounter gives him the unexpected opportunity to get to know the real James.

Together, Danny and James realise ignoring their problems will solve nothing, and if they are to stand any chance of happiness and living as the men they want to be, then they need to move forward. Can the two men face their demons? Or will they end up pushing one another away?

• Language: English
• Publisher: RJ Scott
• Release date: Aug 15, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310206139

Book preview

Alter Ego

Meredith Russell

Copyright © 2014 by Meredith Russell All Rights Reserved.

Smashwords Edition

Editor: Lindy Stokes

Cover Designer: Meredith Russell

Published by Love Lane Books

All rights reserved:

This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission. This book cannot be copied in any format, sold, or otherwise transferred from your computer to another through upload to a file sharing peer to peer program, for free or for a fee. Such action is illegal and in violation of the Copyright Law.

This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission. All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental. The Licensed Art Material is being used for illustrative purposes only; any person depicted in the Licensed Art Material, is a model.

Trademark Acknowledgement

The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

Pinterest: Pinterest, Inc.

Gibson: Gibson Guitar Corp.

Megane Scenic: Renault S.A.S.

Quorn: Marlow Foods Limited

Playstation: Kabushiki Kaisha Sony Computer Entertainment

J2O: Britvic Soft Drinks Limited

Pedigree: Marston’s PLC

Doc Martens: Dr. Martens International Trading GMBH

Staples: Staples The Office Superstore, LLC

Marvel: Marvel Characters, Inc.

Pokemon: Nintendo of America Inc.

Yu-Gi-Oh: Kabushiki Kaisha Shueisha

Hulk: Marvel Characters, Inc.

YMCA: National Council of Young Men’s Christian Associations

IKEA: Inter-Ikea Systems B.V.

Dedication

For my family. Especially for my dad. A man who has better legs than me in a pair of red shiny leggings, who introduced me to the songs of the 70s, and inspired this story on a cold January evening whilst I watched him and his band play at a local club.

For my friends, for their support and love. For reassuring me that even at my worst when I retreat from the world, they will always be there to drag me kicking and screaming back into the light.

And for RJ, S, Erika, Lindy and anyone else at Love Lane Books involved from the submission of Alter Ego to its publication. Thank you.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 1

James Hall strummed the air as a moody David Essex track hit its chorus. The lyrics paused for a powerful chord, and James curled his fingers in the air, playing his invisible guitar.

He heard a short outburst outside the bathroom and lowered his volume. Whatever they were doing out there, it didn’t seem to involve him. He was glad for the few moments of peace before slapping on a smile and going out on the stage.

The Drum and Monkey pub wasn’t huge, and it was a tight squeeze to get all five members of the band and their equipment up on stage. The last time they played they had gone down well with the punters, and so here they were again. Being asked back had instilled James and his bandmates with a sense of pride and confidence. He didn’t know about everyone else, but James had needed that.

He turned the volume back up and focused on his reflection in the mirror above the washbasin. With great care, he tucked the last few strands of his own dark blond hair beneath the net of the platinum blond wig he wore. He flicked the straight, layered locks out of his eyes, and brushed the wig with his fingers as he fixed the style. He then checked over his makeup. His eyes were framed in purple, and he wore pale pink lipstick. James leaned forward, tilting his face as he wiped at the corners of his mouth and checked his teeth. He’d do. He was lead guitarist in a seventies glam cover band, not some elaborate drag act. He liked subtle, just enough of a difference to make him feel like someone else.

There was a bang on the door and a muffled call. James sighed and pulled out his earphones, turning off the music and pocketing his phone in his hoodie.

What are you doing in there? Writing your will?

James unlocked the door and looked down, meeting the eyes of the band’s drummer, Olivia. The drummer looked up at him with fierce blue eyes and James sidestepped her. She was barely over five foot, and with the height came a rather fiery attitude. Not that James would admit it, but she kind of scared him. He gestured with a flourish, All yours.

The rest of the band was getting their makeup, wigs, and costumes ready. Some were more extravagant than others. James preferred low-key, tight dark jeans and a large-collared, white shirt, the top button open with a skinny tie loosely knotted around his neck. He glided across the dressing room to where their lead vocalist, Steve, was getting dressed and took a seat.

There was a knock on the dressing room door, and one of the bar staff stuck his head around the door. Set for five to? he asked.

James leaned back in his seat, and the barman met James’s gaze ever so briefly, though the question wasn’t directed at him.

Yep. Steve Hunter gave a short nod, then focused on lacing his silver platform boots. A black skull was embellished on the side of the high footwear.

See you out front. This time the barman’s words were directed at James, and James couldn’t help but smile as their eyes met again. The barman tapped his fingers on the back of the door one after another in a slow wave of digits. Should be a good one. He returned James’s smile, then slipped out of the room.

Clare Hunter, Steve’s sister, leaned in close and rested her chin on James’s shoulder. That’s your night sorted.

James shrugged her away and brushed the loose hairs that had fallen on his shoulder from her heavy-fringed pink wig. He’d been in a bad mood since getting off work. He was a groundskeeper, working for his parents at the hotel they owned in the village of Knowles Brook. He’d spent the day hefting around pots and clearing the overgrown borders. He was tired and cranky, though he knew that wasn’t the only reason he was in such a funk. He was antsy and couldn’t wait to get on stage and just let go. He glanced at the closed door in the mirror. Maybe Clare was right. Maybe the barman could indeed sort his night and his mood.

What’s up with you? Steve asked and dropped down in the chair beside him. He wore his all-too-frequent tell father expression, despite being only a handful of years older than James himself.

Nothin’. James‘s tone was harsher than he intended.

Your mum again? When James didn’t answer, Steve continued, "I thought the great Jay James didn’t give a shit?"

The emphasis on James’s stage name caused James to frown. Was Steve taking the piss again? He’d thought creating a guitar-playing alter ego and giving him his own name would have been fun and cool. It kind of was. Jay got away with a lot more stuff than James ever would. But despite that, the thrill was short-lived—instead, he had gotten the piss ripped out of him and still did.

Leave it, yeah. He scratched the back of his own hair beneath the shoulder-length, spiky blond wig and focused on his reflection in the mirror. Anger bubbled in his stomach, though not at his friend, so he was relieved when Steve seemed to take the hint and didn’t press further. Things with his mother had hit some imaginary wall that neither of them could get past. Hell he’d tried, even his father had. He still lived at home, worked with his parents every day, and yet nothing ever changed between him and his mother. They were kind of stuck, he guessed, both ignoring the problem in the hope it would go away. He knew the wall between them wasn’t going to be scaled with the half-hearted conversations they had in the last twelve months.

James lowered his eyes as he noted Clare studying him. You want something?

Do you need a hand? She ignored his mood, as per usual. She twisted a tube of lipstick over in her hands. I did Steve’s makeup. She glanced past James to where Steve was adjusting his dark wig. Looks all right, doesn’t he?

James gave Steve a sideways look. He hadn’t really paid much attention before. Steve’s eyelids were painted in various shades of red and orange blended together in a thick block of colour to his eyebrows. Red had been brushed outwards from the corners of his eyes and finished off with several glittered stripes across his cheeks.

Not bad, James agreed unenthusiastically. Clare waited and wore a crooked smile. She clearly expected more. It’s good. He altered his tone and suddenly felt as positive as he was trying to sound. Clare was a good friend and there was something about her presence that always calmed him down. The tension in his gut faded. It’s really good.

I found some images on Pinterest. There’s some cool makeup ideas, some a bit full-on, but still cool. You know like Bowie with that massive lightning bolt.

James smiled. He wasn’t sure under the lights and closed spaces of the pubs and social clubs a full face of makeup was the best idea. In his head he had visions of looking like some melting monster, makeup dribbling and pooling around his neck. Sounds like a lot of effort.

Clare screwed up her mouth and shrugged. It would look great, though.

The band had formed ten months ago, and they had a simple mission statement: play well, have fun, don’t take things too seriously. With that in mind, wigs, platforms, and makeup had become a regular Saturday night occurrence. As the band got more gigs, the business of dressing up had become more than just for fun. James had been raised on the music from the seventies, musicians like Sweet, T. Rex, and Bowie. When his classmates at school had been talking about the latest songs from Craig David to Westlife via the solo singles of the Spice Girls, James had been lost in the performances of the glam-rock era, his own fantasy world of outrageous hair, flamboyant fashion, makeup, and guitars. He’d been friendly with Clare since school, so when she said her brother was looking for a lead guitarist for a band he was putting together with the non-pressure intention of seeing where it took them, James jumped at the chance to lose himself in the music of the decade all over again.

James looked in the mirror and at the deep purple and black around his eyes. Purple was his colour. It always had been, despite his mother’s protests when he painted his bedroom in a deep, dark purple. The other members of the band had adopted their own colour schemes and themes when it came to wigs, outfits, and makeup. Steve was all about reds and golds, set off with a long, dark Cher-like wig. Clare had a thing for pink and silver, Olivia had adopted blue, and their bassist, Miles, a tall man standing at six foot six, though he kept it subtle with a little mascara and dark lipstick, he wore a mirrored top hat that Noddy Holder would be proud of.

His mild disinterest had done nothing to dissuade Clare, who remained sitting beside him as if she knew he was going to change his mind and let her do his makeup. Damn her and her slapped puppy face. Guilt for snapping at her earlier nipped at his insides. His makeup was always much more subtle than his bandmates, but if he was going to put his trust in anyone, it would be Clare.

Do you want to do it? he finally asked Clare and held up the makeup.

She smiled and took the palette of colours, dragging her chair closer as James turned to face her. He leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees, loosely folded his arms, and shut his eyes. With his eyes closed, his other senses took over. The dull sound of music from the main room of the pub echoed through the wall—Down, Down he recognised. They usually threw in a Quo number, Paper Plane was on the set list for the second half of the act.

He took a deep breath and moistened his lips. Clare’s perfume, sweet and sickly, filled his nostrils, mixed in with the scent of stale beer, sweaty bodies, and things he couldn’t even guess at. Who knew the smell of tobacco had masked so much in bars before the smoking ban?

He relaxed as she drew the makeup brush across his cheekbone and angled down toward his mouth. They didn’t speak. James let a sense of calm wash over him. Clare switched sides, focusing on his other cheek, and James opened his eyes. He smiled as he noted the concentration on her face, her tongue teasing the corner of her mouth as she applied the purple makeup.

There, she finally said, putting down the makeup.

He took her hands in his, then turned to look in the mirror. Thanks. He squeezed her hands and gently hugged them to him. Friends, yeah? He had a nasty habit of snapping at people when he was in a bad mood.

With a snort, Clare pulled her hands free. She had never been big on the touchy-feely stuff but was always there to bitch and moan to like any good friend. Friends, she agreed.

Turning away, James massaged just above his eyebrow, rubbing at the dull pain of a headache that he’d been unable to shift all day.

So, the guy, Clare pressed about the barman. Is he definitely gay? And are you going to sleep with him… She trailed off and glanced over her shoulder at the sound of a closing door. Their drummer exited the toilets and busied herself on the other side of the room.

What? James was confused by the question. Who he slept with really wasn’t any of her business.

I think she kind of has a thing for him. Clare kept her voice low as she talked about their bandmate. It’s like her local or something.

He’s gay, James said. There had been some flirting the last time the band had played here. I’m pretty sure she knows he’s gay.

Clare chewed at her lip. Maybe. But I think she has a crush.

Olivia was nineteen, still quick to fall in love with anyone showing her attention and flashing a smile. Hell, she had gone all doe-eyed over James until he’d broken the news she was definitely not his type.

I don’t want you upsetting her.

James folded his arms. Me? How was it his problem?

"We’ve got something good and I don’t want you cocking that up."

Right. He looked at her pointedly but couldn’t help it. He cracked up, laughing as he uttered, Cocking up.

Clare smirked. Yeah, yeah. She leaned on the back of his chair. But you know when things are going so well you’re just waiting for something to go wrong?

James pressed his mouth in a line and nodded. He knew. He’d had moments in his life when he thought everything was perfect and nothing could touch