Edge

By Susan Mac Nicol

PRIVATE MATTERS

 

Since he was young, Jory Longstone has been keeping a diary to catalogue his exploits, which helps inspire his music. He finds solace in managing his complicated life through the written word, which he never intended for anyone else to read.

 

Until one man did, and he now controls Jory's life.

 

While his band's star is rising, Jory remains trapped and ashamed - closed off from emotional attachments for fear of discovery.

 

And then he meets Damian Foyle, manager of his family-owned cinema, a place where Jory loves to hide and relax. The antithesis of a rockstar, Damian loves his martial arts classes, tinkering with motor parts, and the simple life.

 

Damian's first meeting with Jory is just shy of a disaster, and yeah, the second one isn't all that great either.

 

Jory is annoying, sexy as hell, temperamental, and one helluva rock god in tight trousers. It's all Damian can do not to burn up in the heat of the man's fiery personality.

 

But getting close to his heart is another thing altogether, and Damian won't settle for anything less.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Boroughs Publishing Group
• Release date: Feb 8, 2022
• ISBN: 9781957295053

Susan Mac Nicol

'The Official Stuff' Susan writes steamy, sexy, and fun contemporary romance stories, some suspenseful, some gritty and dark, and she hopes, always entertaining. She’s also Editor-in-Chief at Divine Magazine, an online LGBTQ e-zine, and a member of The Society of Authors, the Writers Guild of Great Britain, and the Authors Guild in the US. Susan is also an award-winning screenplay writer, with scripts based on two of her own published works. Sight Unseen has garnered no less than five awards to date, and her TV pilot, Reel Life, based on her debut novel, Cassandra by Starlight, was also a winner at the Oaxaca Film Fest.. 'The Unofficial Stuff' Susan loves going to the theatre, live music concerts (especially if it’s her man-crush Adam Lambert), walks in the countryside, a good G and T, lazing away afternoons reading a good book, and watching re-runs of Silent Witness. Her chequered past includes stories like being mistaken for a prostitute in the city of Johannesburg, being chased by a rhino on a dusty Kenyan road, getting kicked out of a youth club for being a bad influence (she encouraged free thinking), and having an aunt who was engaged to Cliff Richard. Connect with Susan: website: authorsusanmacnicol.com facebook: Author-Susan-Mac-Nicol twitter: SusanMacNicol7 instagram: susiemax77 linkedin: susanmacnicol

Book preview

Edge

PRIVATE MATTERS

Since he was young, Jory Longstone has been keeping a diary to catalogue his exploits, which helps inspire his music. He finds solace in managing his complicated life through the written word, which he never intended for anyone else to read.

Until one man did, and he now controls Jory's life.

While his band's star is rising, Jory remains trapped and ashamed - closed off from emotional attachments for fear of discovery.

And then he meets Damian Foyle, manager of his family-owned cinema, a place where Jory loves to hide and relax. The antithesis of a rockstar, Damian loves his martial arts classes, tinkering with motor parts, and the simple life.

Damian's first meeting with Jory is just shy of a disaster, and yeah, the second one isn't all that great either.

Jory is annoying, sexy as hell, temperamental, and one helluva rock god in tight trousers. It's all Damian can do not to burn up in the heat of the man's fiery personality.

But getting close to his heart is another thing altogether, and Damian won't settle for anything less.

ALSO BY SUSAN MAC NICOL

THE STARLIGHT SERIES

Cassandra by Starlight

Together in Starlight

Forever in Starlight

THE MEN OF LONDON SERIES

Love You Senseless

Sight & Sinners

Suit Yourself

Feat of Clay

Cross to Bare

Flying Solo

Damaged Goods

Hard Climate

Survival Game

Not So Secret Santa

FETISH ALLEY SERIES

For Fox Sake

Death By C*ck

Cover Me in Chocolate

OTHER TITLES

Stripped Bare

Saving Alexander

Worth Keeping

Double Alchemy

Double Alchemy: Climax

Love and Punishment

Sight Unseen

Unlikely in Love

Living On Air

Soul of Discretion

Promises Kept

Gin Me Over

Rubbing One Out

EDGE

Susan Mac Nicol

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www.BOROUGHSPUBLISHINGGROUP.COM

PUBLISHER’S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, business establishments or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. Boroughs Publishing Group does not have any control over and does not assume responsibility for author or third-party websites, blogs or critiques or their content.

EDGE

Copyright © 2022 Susan Elaine Mac Nicol

All rights reserved. Unless specifically noted, no part of this publication may be reproduced, scanned, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of Boroughs Publishing Group. The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or by any other means without the permission of Boroughs Publishing Group is illegal and punishable by law. Participation in the piracy of copyrighted materials violates the author’s rights.

ISBN 978-1-957295-05-3

Contents

Also by Susan Mac Nicol

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Epilogue

About the Author

To my readers – thank you for all your support.

I hope you love Jory and Damian as much as I do.

EDGE

PROLOGUE

2013

Jory

Shitty day. Shitty people. Shitty life.

Jory rolled over on his bed, gazing up at the ceiling as he contemplated what to write next. His diary lay beside him filled with a collection of musings, ideas for songs, and, of course, his new addition: a rather saucy history of sexual conquests.

Being seventeen and about to go to university meant he was adult enough to record the men he’d been with and relive each exciting—or boring as hell—moment.

He nudged the old teddy bear sitting on his bed, staring at him with black button eyes. Reggie had been a part of his life since the age of ten when his dad had won it for him at a local fair. His younger brother Lark had always coveted the stuffed animal, but it was the one item Jory couldn’t part with—not even for Lark.

I can’t believe Roger wants me to go with him on this stupid camping trip, he grumbled to himself as he twirled his favourite writing pen between his fingers. I had plans to go see Christie again, have pizza, and get a blow job. He sat up, scowling because he had to travel to Daisy Nook to learn survival skills. He made quote marks in the air as Reggie looked on. Daisy Nook was a camping site in the Medlock Valley. It was pretty enough and in different circumstances—with his mates, a few packs of beer, and a toke or two—he wouldn’t’ve minded.

But to have to go with his guardian, Roger, an ex-soldier friend of his father, and a man who ran their household like a barracks on steroids, who wasn’t fond of mouthy teenagers, made the prospect unpalatable.

Thank God I’ll be out of here in a couple of weeks, Reg, he murmured to his bear. Out to learning all about music, being with my friends, and finally getting out of this hellhole.

A stray piece of rock music from next door drifted into his room, along with the sweet scent of spring, and Jory hummed along with it. He strummed an imaginary guitar as he did, closing his eyes and pretending he was on stage in front of his adoring fans. He could almost hear their screams of adulation, hear the bass guitar thrumming in his hands and the clash of the symbols and beating drums.

Jory, what the hell are you doing in there? The door to his bedroom flew open and Roger came in, face stern.

Jory shot up and glared at him. Jesus, knock much, you wanker? What part of a closed door don’t you understand?

I don’t need an invite to enter your room. Roger stared down at the diary on Jory’s bed and his lips curled in disdain. Are you writing in that poncy diary again? Haven’t you got something better to do, such as mow the lawn like I asked you to do an hour ago?

Jory’s temper flared and he picked up the diary and closed it. I told you I’ll get to it. It’s not like the grass is going anywhere. He slid the diary into his desk drawer and closed it. Diaries are a great way of letting your emotions out, and I get inspiration from the personal stuff I write to create song lyrics.

For him, solace also came in the routine of writing in his journal, trying to put sense in the events of his life.

Roger sneered. Oh yes, the great musician hoping to make it big and become a rock star one day. He shook his head. What the hell happened to having a trade, a good honest living rather than pipe dreams?

Jory closed his eyes and counted to ten to control his anger. He opened them and Roger was still standing there, wearing an expression filled with disgust.

Some of us aspire to more, Jory said evenly. Some of us follow our dreams.

Roger snorted. Good luck with that. You think university is going to teach you much? It’s merely an excuse for you young people to fuck around and drink too much.

Fuck off and take your homespun wisdom with you, Jory snapped. I’ll come down and mow the damned lawn in a few minutes.

Roger gestured to the desk drawer. Right, after you’ve finished laying your soul bare in that stupid book like a weakling. You need to grow a pair.

Jory could take no more. He jumped off the bed and went to Roger, pushing him towards the door. Get out, he fumed. "I won’t have you make fun of what I enjoy, and what helps me to cope. My mum was the one who got me writing in a diary, when she told me I needed somewhere to keep my secrets and get my frustrations out. My dad did the same thing as a kid. Do you think he was a weak person, given he was a fellow soldier?"

He pushed Roger again. Get. Out.

Roger turned at the door and gave Jory a thin smile. Secrets, hey? What kind of secrets could you have? How many men you’ve fucked? How many times you’ve been upset and needed to cry into your diary?

It was so close to the truth Jory wasn’t sure what to say. He ignored Roger and slammed the door shut.

It didn’t stop Roger. "Perhaps I need to read those diaries. See what secrets you really have."

The taunting comment sent chills down Jory’s spine. He’d never considered having to hide his journals before, but now it looked as if he’d need to.

Piss off, he yelled as he searched his room for a safe place to hide them. Perhaps the air vent would be suitable, but then again, in the movies, that was always the first place someone looked. Thank God he only had another couple of weeks left then he’d be out of the house and it wouldn’t be a problem.

Like I said—can’t wait, he grumbled as he lifted his rug and looked for a loose floorboard. That would be the best place.

Soon he’d be able leave Roger behind for good.

CHAPTER ONE

Seven years later

Jory

Ramsay H is such a gentleman. He’s one of the nicest guys in the music business. And pretty on the eyes too. His long, curly hair is perfect to grip when he sucks my cock. And what he can do with his fingers—man, there’s heaven right there. – 10 Feb 2018

Leaning back against the wall of the nightclub, all Jory saw through half-closed eyes were strobe lights and the flitting images of ravers highlighted in the rainbow laser streaks flashing across the dance floor. His nostrils flared at the familiar scent of weed and sex, mixed with the gin-soaked breath of the man currently with his hands down Jory’s pants. Hurry the fuck up. I haven’t got all night. The dick-stroking intensified and Jory grunted as the man tried to kiss him, his lips eager and wet.

No kissing, Jory muttered as he turned his face away. You’re here to get me off, nothing else.

Oh, come on, the dark-haired hottie whined—Jory thought his name was Brad, he wasn’t sure—let me taste you at least. Give a man a little encouragement. His fingers tightened around Jory’s dick and he closed his eyes as pleasure took him.

He shook his head. No fucking kissing, he growled, pushing his dick deeper into Brad’s tight hands. The man was skilled, and Jory was close to coming. If you can’t handle it, fuck off.

Wanking rock stars, Brad mumbled as he buried his face in Jory’s neck. Always think you’re better than everyone else.

Jory ignored him—it wasn’t the first time he’d had the complaint—and pushed his dick harder into Brad’s greedy grasp.

It took another minute of heavy breathing before few small sounds of pleasure snuck out from between Jory’s tight lips and he was coming, his jizz spurting from his sensitive cock and soaking Brad’s frenzied hands. The dude was panting, his eyes squeezed shut, and his lips were wet with saliva. Jory’s dick was too sensitive and he pulled away.

Brad moaned in protest. Get me off, he demanded as he took Jory’s hand and thrust it into his tight leather trousers. Don’t leave me hanging, you bastard. He opened his eyes. You can even suck me off if you want.

Jory rolled his eyes. Not on the cards tonight. There are too many people. He wasn’t a prude, but he drew the line at going down on a bloke in a crowd, even if they couldn’t see him. The club might be classified as a safe place what with the CCTV cameras and the number of bouncers around keeping a wary eye on troublemakers, but there was always a wanker with a phone camera willing to take the risk. And the CCTV, which could be bought for a price by some tabloid. The last thing he needed was being caught sucking a man’s dick and having it plastered all over the papers.

His fingers curled around Brad’s hard prick—hey, the guy deserved his orgasm—and brought Brad off with quick, tight strokes. Soon he felt the rush of the other man’s come spill onto his fingers, and he let go.

Brad leaned back against the wall with glazed eyes. Wow, good one, he mumbled. You have strong hands, dude.

Jory wiped his hand his jeans—he’d put them in the wash when he got home—and shrugged. My guitar-playing hand. I’m not sure there’s any correlation. Though it was an interesting thought. Does playing guitar make me give better hand jobs? He’d Google it when he got home. He’d even leave it in his search history to piss off Roger.

At the thought of the man he lived with again, not by choice, Jory’s good mood evaporated, and he zipped himself up. Time to get thoroughly rat-faced, and go home smelling of sex, booze, and, potentially, vomit. That’d screw with Roger’s head as well. Jory smiled to himself in satisfaction.

He messed with me when I was growing up, now it’s payback time.

Brad gave a lazy stretch and finished buttoning up his fancy Levi’s. That smile for me, handsome? I admit, we make a good couple. Fancy having another beer then maybe we can go back to my place for a proper workout? I can take a better look at all your gorgeous tats.

Jory didn’t answer. He was too busy listening to the beat of the music, loving the melody and the way the lyricist used the notes to bolster the words. I might try putting something similar in one of the songs I’m having trouble with. Moth to a Flame was turning out to be a real bitch of a creation.

He shook his head. Nah, mate, I’m not one for repeats. Which was a lie, because honestly, with the right man, he could be. Someone to cuddle up to in bed and laugh with when John Cleese was being non-PC in Fawlty Towers. But thanks for the action.

He moved away, hoping to find Bernard, his drummer, and have another drink. Over in the far corner, he locked glances with his occasional bodyguard, and the band’s driver, Dumont Benoir, who, despite his French name, didn’t have a bit of French in him. Jory averted his gaze quickly. No doubt Dumont would roll his eyes long-sufferingly, as he did, and light up a cigarette before turning to watch the crowd once again with the appearance of sheer boredom. The nonchalant persona hid a dangerous man, and Jory had seen him pick up a seventeen-stone man and throw him through a plate-glass window.

Jory wasn’t quite Bon Jovi famous yet, but he was a celebrity, and his agent/manager Sooty Marcus would pitch a fit if he didn’t take precautions against unscrupulous paparazzi and rabid fans while out partying or in public. Roger would have a canary, believing his meal ticket had to be protected at all costs in public.

One of the reasons Jory loved Boulevard 53 was because the club respected his privacy and kept a sharp eye out on potential celebrity stalkers and headline-hungry reporters. It was also a place he could pick up quick fucks with no strings and leave them when he was done.

A waiter passed by with a tray of drinks, and Jory grabbed one. The waiter continued on, unaware it was missing. Even if he’d noticed, Jory would have gotten away with it here. His status in Manchester had risen to legendary, and he played up to it when the shit hit the fan.

He slammed the whisky down in one shot, fobbed off the hangers-on, and smiled at the cute twinks trying to get into his pants. He waved drunkenly at some groupies who followed Stone Edge around and would fuck any one of them they could.

Not tonight, he sang as he staggered through the crowd. Man on a mission. Best move out of the way. He managed to grab another drink from an unsuspecting waiter and downed it in one gulp. A few minutes later, his head was spinning, and he knew he’d have to sit down before he fell. Somehow, he’d managed to ditch Dumont—he peered around blearily but didn’t see him or Bernie—and the crowds had dispersed. Had everyone gone home?

Seeing