Stuff: The Bristol Collection, #2

By Josephine Myles

The Bristol Collection, Book Two

When Mr. Glad Rags meets Mr. Riches, the result is flaming fun.

Tobias “Mas” Maslin doesn’t need much. A place of his own, weekends spent clubbing, and a rich boyfriend for love and security. Pity his latest sugar daddy turns out to be married with kids. Mas wants to be special, not someone’s dirty little secret.

When he loses his job and his flat on the same day, Mas’s world starts unravelling… until he stumbles across a down-at-heel vintage clothes shop. Now he just needs to convince the delightfully shy owner he’s in need of a new salesman.

Perry Cavendish-Fiennes set up Cabbages and Kinks solely to annoy his controlling father. He’d much rather spend every spare moment on his true passion, art. That is until Mas comes flaming into his life, talking nineteen to the dozen and turning his world upside down.

Against his better judgment Perry offers Mas a job and a place to live, but it turns out he should have listened to his instincts. The shop is already financially on the brink, and Mas’s flirting makes him feel things he’s never felt for a man. Yet Mas seems convinced they can make a go of it—in the shop, and together. That is, until Mas’s past starts to catch up with him…

Warning: Contains an eccentric bumbling Englishman, a gobby drama queen, fantastic retro clothing, scary fairies, exes springing out of the woodwork, and a well-aimed glass of bubbly. Written in brilliantly British English.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Josephine Myles
• Release date: Nov 21, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386247401

Josephine Myles

English through and through, Josephine Myles is addicted to tea and busy cultivating a reputation for eccentricity. She writes gay erotica and romance, but finds the erotica keeps cuddling up to the romance, and the romance keeps corrupting the erotica. Jo blames her rebellious muse but he never listens to her anyway, no matter how much she threatens him with a big stick. She’s beginning to suspect he enjoys it. Jo now has over a dozen novels and novellas under her belt. Her novel Stuff won the 2014 Rainbow Award for Best Bisexual Romance, and her novella Merry Gentlemen won the 2014 Rainbow Award for Best Gay Romantic Comedy. She loves to be busy, and is currently having fun trying to work out how she is going to fit in her love of writing, dressmaking and attending cabaret shows in fabulous clothing around the demands of a preteen with special needs and an insatiably curious toddler. Website and blog: http://josephinemyles.com/  Newsletter: http://eepurl.com/hrQ4s  Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/josephine.myles.author  Twitter: @JosephineMyles 

Book preview

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.

Shaz just harrumphed, but Bex got this thoughtful look on her face. Yeah, maybe you’re right. I mean, even if Daniel Crossman really wants to come on my face, I don’t have to let him, do I?

Fucking tosspot, he is, Shaz muttered.

Yeah, but a hot one.

They continued to argue over just how hot this Daniel fella was all the way through the main arcade of Cabot Circus, and Mas had to stifle his sigh of relief when they’d passed out the other side and turned the corner. Reckon I’ll be okay from here. Thanks, girls. He handed back Shaz’s hoodie with a flourish, and kissed them both on the cheek. Bex just took it as her due, but Shaz seemed genuinely touched. Thanks, love, he said. You’re a star. I know you must have been chilly without it.

Shaz just shrugged and wouldn’t meet his eyes. It was kind of hard to tell with her dark skin, but he could have sworn she was blushing.

The walk back to Stokes Croft didn’t take long, but rather than follow the main road like he usually would, Mas turned down into St Paul’s. Not a neighbourhood he’d normally walk through on his own—not at night, anyway—but there’d be less chance of him being spotted if Walter was still prowling around. At this time of day, St Paul’s didn’t seem so bad. The hookers were still in bed, and the rundown houses looked kind of cheerful with their pastel colours glowing in the March sun. It had always reminded him of a seaside town, all these terraces of old painted houses with great big bay windows and tiny front gardens. Shame Bristol didn’t actually have a beach. He could have done with somewhere decent to sunbathe.

Especially now he didn’t have a job.

Shit. Was he even going to get a reference from Penny after the whole perfume-thieving incident?

Mas turned the corner into City Road, so absorbed in his problems he almost missed the figure standing outside his building at the other end. Good thing Walter was so big. He had a way of standing out wherever he was.

Mas ducked into a recessed shop doorway, just as Walter started to turn in his direction. Would he still be able to see him through the glass of the display window? If Mas could see him, there was a pretty good chance he could be spotted himself.

Only one thing for it. Mas pushed open the door and entered the shop.

Chapter Two

Abell tinkled, announcing Mas’s entrance. Cabbages and Kinks , the hand-lettered sign on the door had announced, in an elegant script. What the hell was this place? Mas peered around as his eyes adjusted to the gloom, his nose wrinkling at the musty pong of mothballs. Both windows were blocked off by high screens, and the room was stuffed right up to the high ceiling with racks and racks of dark clothing. A chandelier hung from the ornate ceiling rose, but not one of those dangly crystally jobbies like they had at Crowther’s. This one appeared to be made of antlers festooned with cobwebs, only one of the bulbs giving off a feeble glow. The shop looked like the place where clothes came to die.

But when Mas took a closer look at the clothing, expecting to find ragged tatters and the ghosts of office parties past, the garments turned out to have life in them yet. He fingered the cloth of a pair of trousers hanging over the end of one of the free-standing rails in the middle of the room. He’d expected rough and scratchy wool, but the texture was silky. He picked them up to take a closer look. They were a burgundy tweed, lined in a soft cotton with a fine pink stripe, and the only label he could find announced Matherson Bros, Tunbridge Wells.

Never heard of them, he muttered to himself, still examining the cloth and the stitching. The style was like something you’d see in a period drama, and from what he could see, the label had been stitched on by hand. Just how old were these clothes? And where the hell was an assistant so he could ask? Hello? Anyone here? He waited, hearing nothing. The shop was weirdly silent for the city, perhaps coz of all those old clothes deadening the sound. Hello? he called again before raising his voice and trying a few more times.

Yes, yes, I’m coming. I knew I should have locked the place. A face poked around a curtain in the corner of the room. The suspicious and fairly hostile expression melted away as he took Mas in, then cleared his throat and came all the way through the curtain. There was a tall, lanky body to go with the wild shock of reddish hair and a ridiculously plummy accent. There was really no need to shout.

Yeah, well, I couldn’t see anyone here. You could lose trade that way, mate. Gotta greet ’em at the door. Make ’em feel welcome. First rule of customer service that is. Or was that ‘the customer is always right’? Either way, you’ve gotta admit I’m in the right. Mas grinned to show the bloke he was only teasing, and got a slightly cross-eyed stare for his trouble.

The man had probably the most bizarre dress sense Mas had ever come across, and he had some totally colour-blind, fashion-victim friends. But this bloke wasn’t in eye-watering neon Lycra club gear. No, he did quirky in a way that was simultaneously both more far out and more traditional, if such a thing were possible. He had on an old red military jacket—the sort that was all covered in braid and shiny buttons. Add in the lightweight linen collarless shirt and black waistcoat, and he looked like he was headed out to a pirate fancy dress party. It was just a shame he didn’t have the britches and long boots. The plain black trousers looked like a nice quality, though. Wool, Mas would guess, and he liked to think he had a pretty expert eye after spending the last year working in Crowther’s menswear department.

Arrr, me laddie. You just need an eyepatch and a parrot to finish that outfit off, he said. Maybe a wig too, although it would be a shame to cover up that mad hair.

A wig? What on earth do you mean?

You know, to give you a proper Jack Sparrow vibe. You are dressing up as a pirate, right?

Umm, no.

Oops. My bad. Mas gave his best whoops! smile, and the man flushed. It shouldn’t have been so appealing what with him being a redhead, but instead of going beet red all over, he just got these two stripes of colour across his cheekbones. High, fine cheekbones to go with the jutting jawline and sharp nose, Mas noted with approval. Not a classically handsome face, but definitely a memorable one. But why was he blushing? Mas reviewed what he’d said. Not the Jack Sparrow crack, surely? You didn’t dress like this if you were embarrassed by comments. Oh. Unless it was all round general social awkwardness. A bit like Jasper, Mas’s sort-of ex.

A flare of interest sparked inside Mas. Mr. Cheekbones had just gone from interesting to fascinating. Fuck knew why shy guys turned him on, but there was something about blushes and stammers that was like catnip to him. Maybe it was the way other blokes underestimated them. Mas always got to feel like he was discovering a hidden treasure, and they were usually well worth the extra bit of time it took to get them into bed.

So what’s the deal with this place? Mas asked, trying for something less personal. Let Mr. Cheekbones relax a bit before risking embarrassing him again. "Cabbages and Kinks is a pretty weird name. I don’t see any cabbages around, although I’m thinking you might have a bit of a vintage clothing kink."

Mr. Cheekbones flushed darker but gave Mas a defiant glare. I like well-made clothes. They don’t have to be old, but they’re harder to find these days. Most garments are made of cheap fabric, shoddily stitched together by Chinese children. You get what you pay for, and the vast majority of consumers don’t want to pay a little extra for quality.

Mas threw his hands up. Hey, I’m not arguing with you. We’re on the same side here. Got to say, I love a man in well-put-together clothing. He let his gaze rake up and down Mr. Cheekbones’s body, because he definitely wasn’t getting a straight vibe off this one.

But if Mr. Cheekbones was into men, he wasn’t falling for the bait. Not a problem. The shy ones were fun to flirt with, after all, and if Mas kept it up for long enough, he might get a glimmer of interest. He picked up the pair of trousers he’d been examining earlier. So, how much are these? Couldn’t find a price tag anywhere.

No, I don’t tag things. The man held out his hands, and Mas pressed the fabric into them. He watched as Mr. Cheekbones swiftly examined them with long, nimble fingers. Oh yes. Hand-tailored. 1930s, I’d guess. For you... And now it was Mas’s turn to be examined, although not with those deft fingers, sadly. Mr. Cheekbones stared him up and down, but not like he wanted to rip Mas’s clothes off and push him down onto his knees. Instead he felt more like a commodity being appraised for resale value, and shifted uncomfortably, wondering what value his shopworn uniform and rip-off designer bag would stamp on him.

But Mr. Cheekbones’s eyes just widened as his gaze came back to rest on Mas’s face.

For me? Mas prompted when the silence had thickened from uncomfortable to slightly creepy.

Oh. Umm, yes. Mr. Cheekbones shook his head delicately, as if shaking loose an unwanted thought. I’d say twenty-five pounds.

Twenty-five? It probably amounted to a bargain, but with the rent overdue, it was an extravagance he could do without. He fingered the fabric regretfully. I don’t know. But they’d look hot with my black silk shirt. If they fit the way Mas thought they would, Grant wouldn’t be able to resist jumping his bones. Not that he put up any resistance as it was, so maybe that wasn’t all that much of a selling point.

Twenty, then? I couldn’t go much lower than that. Overheads, you know. How about you try them on? See what you think? Mr. Cheekbones looked surprised at himself, as if he hadn’t meant to say any of that.

Mas really should have a word with him about his sales technique, not to mention his woeful merchandising, but he took pity on the bloke. And besides, he really did want to try the trousers on. You have a changing room somewhere? Must be behind the curtain, because there sure as hell wasn’t a cubicle in this room.

Oh, I, erm, no. I don’t. But there’s the next room you could use. So long as you stay in there. Don’t go wandering.

Okay. Just through here, then? Mas strolled over to the curtain, a heavy, dusty red-and-gold brocade complete with moth-eaten fringe at the bottom.

Don’t take too long.

Don’t worry. I’ve had a lot of practise at dropping my trousers. Mas couldn’t resist winking as he let the curtain drop back behind him, over Mr. Cheekbones’s shocked face.

The curtain swished back behind the young man with the angelic face, and Perry let his body sag with relief. What the blazes had been going on there? The chap clearly wanted something more than the trousers, but figuring out what was beyond Perry’s limited people skills. Perhaps he’d been sent by Perry’s father to check up on him.

But no, that was just paranoia talking, wasn’t it? His father wouldn’t stoop to underhand dealings like that. In fact, his father would probably come himself so he could deliver a lecture. If he even cared enough to check up on what Perry was doing with his life.

There a mirror in here anywhere? a voice called from the other room, rousing Perry from visions of his father lecturing him about wasting his potential and shirking his responsibilities. The customer. Right. Concentrate on him, who most definitively wasn’t anything more than a casual browser, because there was no way his father would employ someone in such cheap clothing.

A mirror?

The man poked his head around the curtain, surprising Perry into taking a step backwards. A big shiny reflective thing. Most clothes shops have them to let people see how things fit. I mean, I can tell they’re comfy and they look good from this angle, but it’s next to impossible to get a good view of my arse. Believe me, I’ve tried.

Perry couldn’t stop himself taking a quick peek at the rear in question. He was no expert on men’s posteriors. He was no expert on women’s either, but he had an inkling that the rear in question would probably fit most people’s definition of attractive. The burgundy wool pulled tight over rounded buttocks. Too tight, actually. There were pull lines running across and spoiling the overall look. They don’t fit quite right. At the back. You’d need more fabric there.

Are you saying my bum looks big in this? The young man batted his long eyelashes at Perry and thrust his rear end even farther out. He’d split a seam if he wasn’t careful.

It does look a little too large. But not in a bad way, Perry rushed to add.

Don’t worry, I’m not offended. I’m just flattered you noticed.

Perry hesitated before replying. Were they flirting? He’d never flirted with a man before—not knowingly, anyway—but it felt a little like the awkward conversations he’d had with women he was trying to pick up in the past. Back in the days before he’d decided to ditch that whole confusing part of the proceedings and go straight to a professional instead. I noticed, he ended up mumbling. Maybe we could find you something else that fits better.

Nah, you’re all right. I shouldn’t really be buying anything right now anyway. Just lost my job, didn’t I?

Dreadfully sorry to hear that.

Now the man was grinning at him with quite the widest, toothiest smile Perry had ever seen. You’re a posh one, aren’t you? What are you doing hanging out in a dump like this?

It didn’t feel like an insult, coming from someone with an expression of what felt like genuine interest. And while he knew he should probably take offence, Perry had to face it, the shop was a dump. In the end, he just stuck his hand out. Peregrine Cavendish-Fiennes at your service. And I own this dump. Well, the business side of it. Not the premises, unfortunately, and at this rate, I’m never likely to. I live upstairs. Now he was babbling, while