Barefoot

By Lillian Francis

Finn’s rugby career was brought to a premature end by a crunching tackle, shattering his confidence and leaving him shy and insecure about his sexuality, despite his size. But understanding how it feels to lose courage in the face of a shaky future, he volunteers at a homeless shelter.

One night he gives up his shoes to a homeless man. Of course, that’s the night he finally gets an opportunity to talk to Sam, the cute twink he’s been crushing on. Shoeless, breathless, not at his best – it’s no wonder Sam mistakes Finn for another man down on his luck.

This story originally appeared in the ‘A Taste of Honey’ anthology.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lillian Francis
• Release date: Nov 12, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463651599

Lillian Francis

Lillian Francis. Author of gay romance. Happy Endings guaranteed. Eventually. Lillian Francis is an English writer who likes to dabble in many genres but always seems to return to the here and now. Their name may imply a grand dame in pink chiffon and lace, but Lillian is more at home in jeans, Converse, and the sort of T-shirts that often need explaining to the populous at large but will get a fist bump at Comic-Con. Lillian is a self-confessed geek who likes nothing more than settling down with a comic or a good book, except maybe writing. Given a notepad, pen, their Kindle, and an infinite supply of chocolate Hob Nobs and they can lose themself for weeks. Romance was never their reading matter of choice, so it came as a great surprise to all concerned, including themself, to discover a romance was exactly what they’d written, and not the rollicking spy adventure or cosy murder mystery they always assumed they’d write. Luckily there's always room for romance no matter what plot bunny chooses to bite them, so never say never to either of those stories appearing. Lillian lives in an imposing castle on a windswept desolate moor or in an elaborate shack on the edge of a beach somewhere, depending on their mood. And while they’d love for the heroes of their stories to either be chained up in the dungeon or wandering the shack serving drinks in nothing but skimpy barista aprons more often than not they are doing something far less erotic like running charity shops and shovelling elephant shit. Drawn to the ocean, although not in a Reginald Perrin sort of way, Lillian would love to own a camper van and to live by the sea.

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Copyright

Cover artist: Lillian Francis

Barefoot, Second edition © 2019 Lillian Francis

Published by Finally Love Press

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 Copyright Law.

This is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or business establishments, events or locales is coincidental.

All trademarks are the property of their respective owners.

The Licensed Art Material is being used for illustrative purposes only. All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Warning

This book contains material that is intended for a mature, adult audience. It contains graphic language, explicit sexual content, and adult situations.

Dedication

To those people who remember this story fondly and wanted to see it back. Thank you.

Table of Contents

Barefoot

About the Author

Also by Lillian Francis

Barefoot

Clive? I had no idea if that was the old man’s real name, but I’d heard other guys at the shelter call him that. Clive. Wait up.

I jogged to catch up with him, wanting to conduct this conversation on the main street, where he wouldn’t feel trapped by my height and the enclosed walls of the narrow alleyway he was heading for. Not that chasing a homeless man was much better for making him feel safe. I slowed to a more casual walk and still caught up with him easily before he rounded the corner of the building, each of my long strides covering more ground than his hobbling gait could hope to navigate.

I fell into step beside him. A tactile person by nature, I had to fight my instinct to stop him with a placating hand to the shoulder. I’d learned the hard way that most of the guys who attended the shelter, and even more so those who didn’t, hated to be touched. Maybe hated was overstating the issue. Or oversimplifying it. Many had reason to fear the touch of a stranger.

Clive. I said his name once more, making sure he would be able to see me clearly, if he would only raise his gaze from the pavement. It’s Finn. From the shelter.

I kept my voice low. If there was one thing these guys hated as much as unsolicited contact, it was everybody knowing their business. Not that the streets were busy at this time in the evening. Most people were bundled up in front of their tellys, watching the daily tribulations of strangers in ongoing soaps or the latest reality show.

What happened to your shoes? I asked gently. We’d had a donation of several dozen pairs of shoes the previous week, and Clive had been at the top of the list for a replacement pair. His old boots had been held together by spit and hope—and an exceptionally strong elastic band—and let in so much water that he was in real danger of contracting trench foot. Many of the men had to be cajoled into throwing anything away, but I’d been privy to watching Clive willingly dump the old pair in the rubbish bin. He’d kept the elastic band, though.

Rheumy