Scrap, page 18
“I’ll be back.” The morning air was chilly on Grant’s naked skin, but after he relieved himself, he headed into the caravan’s tiny kitchen and poked around in a few cupboards. Eventually he located a packet of unopened Crunch Cream biscuits and took them back to the bedroom.
“Thought you’d done a runner,” Dare said when Grant climbed back into bed. He wanted to snuggle down under the duvet, but he remained sitting so he could eat.
“Too cold to go for a jog without my clothes on.”
Dare’s chuckle was warm against Grant’s side. “But you’d give everyone a treat.”
“Not much to look at when it’s this cold.” Grant flipped back the covers to prove his point.
“Mmm, I’m sure I can do something about warming you up.”
“I brought biscuits.”
“Fuck the biscuits, I want to eat you.” Dare backed up his words with his mouth, and soon Grant was very much warmed up indeed, and then crying out as he came down Dare’s throat. After a sweaty reciprocal hand job, the two of them lay there, kissing lazily. It had been a long time since Grant had tasted himself in a kiss, and he liked it. Then he remembered.
“I thought you didn’t do that.”
“Didn’t do what?”
“Let anyone come in your mouth.”
The silence went on for a while, their eyes locked. “Guess I must trust you a little bit after all,” Dare eventually said, a playful smile on his lips.
Trust. The idea was strangely humbling. Perhaps even more so than letting Dare play with his arse had been. Grant wriggled a little on the bed. He could feel a slight twinge there, but only when he was paying attention.
“Think maybe I’m starting to trust you too.”
The moment could have got awkward, but fortunately, Solly bounded up onto the bed, and then there were the biscuits to open, clothes to put back on and coffee to drink, and that whole subject of trust and what it all meant was shelved.
“Suppose I should be off,” Grant said after finishing his coffee.
Dare opened the door and stuck his head out. “It’s a gorgeous morning. Feels like spring might finally be here. Fancy a walk?”
“Where to?”
“I usually take Solly down to the lock on Saturday mornings. She loves it there. It’s not far.”
“I’ve never been to the lock.”
“Then it’s about time you put that right.”
And so it was that ten minutes later, Grant found himself standing on the lock gates next to Dare, staring down at the river water ten feet below them. They were at the point where the waters of the floating harbour met the tidal River Avon, and from this vantage point, they could see all the way up the Avon Gorge. The Clifton Suspension Bridge spanned the top of the gorge, lit up white against the pearlescent sky. Grant pulled his phone out and took a few pictures, but the tiny lens couldn’t do the view justice.
“Wish I’d brought my camera,” he grumbled.
“Didn’t know you were a photographer,” Dare said.
“I’m not trained in it or anything. Just like taking pictures.”
“What sort of things?”
“Landscapes, mostly. Especially urban ones. I like buildings and structures.”
“Maybe you really are in the right line of work, then.”
“Maybe.” Grant pondered this. “I think I’d like being able to take shots to sell people’s houses, though. I’d be good at that. A professional-looking set of photographs can make all the difference when it comes to attracting buyers.”
“Hmm.” It didn’t sound like Dare was paying much attention, but when he turned to see why, Grant couldn’t be annoyed. Dare was staring in near-rapture at the boats in the harbour behind them. “Looks like the Matthew’s coming through. We’ll get to see the Plimsoll Bridge opening.”
“The Matthew?”
Dare stared at him in disbelief. “Just how long have you been living in Bristol? You know the Matthew. She’s only the most famous ship in town. That one there.”
Grant followed Dare’s finger and spied the old wooden sailboat behind the busy flyover. It looked like something out of a period drama, and strangely incongruous waiting there next to a modern tug. “Oh yeah, I think I’ve seen her before. But I thought the SS Great Britain was Bristol’s most famous ship.” It was the one with all the road signs pointing it out as a tourist attraction, anyway.
“Okay, Mr. Pedantic. Second most famous ship, then. But you can actually go out on the Matthew, so she’s more of a proper ship by my reckoning.”
A loud siren filled the air, and Dare took hold of Grant’s hand. “Come on. We’d better get off the lock gates.”
Watching the four-lane swing bridge open from this angle was much more impressive than Grant’s previous experience of being stuck in traffic on the flyover, cursing as he waited impatiently for the bridge to close so he could get to work. “It’s an amazing piece of engineering,” he commented. “But why did they name it after a shoe? You’d have thought they’d have named it after Brunel or something, like everything else in this town. What? Why are you looking at me like that?”
Dare’s look of disbelief changed to one of amusement. “Are you seriously telling me you haven’t heard of Samuel Plimsoll? I named my dog after him, for fuck’s sake. He’s only one of this town’s most amazing heroes.”
“For inventing a canvas shoe?”
Dare rolled his eyes and punched Grant in the arm. “He didn’t invent the shoes. They named them after him because of the lines around the soles. You know, the Plimsoll line. On boats.”
Grant hated feeling like he didn’t have the answers, but raising two children had taught him to accept that one person’s brain couldn’t possible hold all the knowledge in the world. “Well, are you going to make me Google this Plimsoll line thing, or are you going to take mercy? I’m not a naval engineer, you know.”
“Seriously? I thought everyone knew about them. Guess maybe it’s different if you haven’t been raised around here. Okay, well, Samuel Plimsoll was a social reformer. A proper man of the people, and he got angry that so many ship owners were overloading their boats and then claiming on the insurance when they sank. Coffin ships, he used to call them. So he got a law passed where all boats had to have a safety line on the hull, and that line couldn’t go below the water level. He’s probably saved more lives than just about anyone else from this city. A real fucking hero. Drives me nuts that that slave-trader Colston got all kinds of shit named after him, and poor old Plimsoll just got a bridge.”
“And a load of shoes.” Grant stared at the hulls of the boats entering the lock now the bridge had opened. Now it had been pointed out to him, he noticed the lines painted there. “It’s such a simple idea,” he marvelled.
“Yeah, but it wasn’t simple to get everyone to listen to him. Those fuckers didn’t care about the innocent lives they were destroying. All they cared about was the money in their pockets.” Dare’s voice was climbing in pitch, like he was about to get stuck into a proper leftie rant. People were starting to stare.
“Okay, okay, I wasn’t insulting him. Simple ideas are often the best ones. But you know, those merchant types were only doing what their business model demanded of them. Making a profit.”
“At what cost? You think money is worth more than human lives? You think the slave trade was justified too? Just coz it turned over a profit?”
“No, of course not.”
“But profit’s what you’re after, isn’t it? You and that boss of yours.”
“You’re after a profit too. You’re not telling me you give away your vans for nothing.”
“No, of course not. But at least I’m not hurting anyone else. And it’s all my work I’m getting paid for. Honest toil. Not paper shuffling and wheeler-dealing. You don’t care about my livelihood, you just want me to sell up so you can build another block of bleedin’ yuppie flats.” Dare glared at him, and Grant had the uncomfortable feeling he’d been lumped in with the enemy.
“Dare, it’s my job. Nothing personal. But if you don’t want to sell, I’m not going to pressure you.”
“Really?”
“Really. I’ve said to Cecil he should get someone else on the case. That I’m not having any luck with you. He just seems to think that I’ll be able to wear you down eventually.”
Dare folded his arms and stuck his chin out. “Not gonna happen.”
“I know that. You know that. But Cecil’s a man who’s used to getting his own way.” Even if that meant employing nefarious means. Grant shifted uncomfortably. Blast Cecil for putting him in this awkward position. He wanted to warn Dare, but that might just end up stirring up trouble over nothing. So far, Cecil knew nothing compromising about Dare, and that was the way it was going to stay if Grant had any say in the matter. “Look, we just have to wait another month or so and eventually he’ll give up. It’s not like he can force you into selling, is it?”
“No, I suppose not.” Dare looked like he had more to say, but then a man in a fluorescent jacket approached them.
“I’m going to need you two gents to step aside, please. You really don’t want to be standing there when I open the sluices.”
“Come on.” Dare tugged Grant over to stand at the edge of the dock, on the river side of the lock gates.
“Why didn’t we want to be there?” Grant asked. Surely watching the boats go down would be preferable to staring at the muddy river waters.
“There’s this whirlpool thing down here that I like to watch. And anyway, you can’t stand over there. There’s this gert big metal pole that comes out of the ground. Might end up spiking you in the foot or something.”
“Oh.” Grant watched the lockkeeper fiddle with a large electronic control panel, and sure enough, a thin metal pole did indeed sprout up out of the concrete dockside. “Yeah, I wouldn’t have wanted that up my trouser leg.”
“Nah, I know what kind of pole you like inside your trousers.” Dare nudged Grant, chuckled filthily, and they stood shoulder to shoulder, watching the harbour waters flow out into the muddy river.
Peace filled Grant up. A kind of serenity he remembered from his early days with both Mas and Harriet. A sense that things would work themselves out if he could just let nature take its course.
But it had been a false sense of security both those times. Who was to say this time around would be any better? No, Grant needed to guard his heart. To let this thing with Dare run its course and then move on to find someone more socially appropriate for him. The kind of man he could introduce his daughters to. After all, what could he possibly have in common with a man like Dare?
Yet the feeling of hope remained, and Grant turned his face to the spring sunshine, basking in its warmth.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Dare didn’t hear from Grant until the following Friday, and he was just beginning to worry Grant had bottled out, when the text came.
I’m outside. Dare dropped his tools and ran, only slowing down when he rounded the corner that put him in sight of the gate. Then he dropped to a casual stroll, drinking in the sight of Grant standing there, all smouldering sexiness in his dark suit and deep red shirt. Dare didn’t know what he’d done to deserve such a vision of old-school handsome, but he was glad he hadn’t fucked it all up.
“Come back to my place,” Grant said when Dare got to the gate. “I want you to fuck me.”
Dare stared hard, but Grant didn’t waver. “We could do that here,” Dare said, mentally kicking himself for not leaping at the chance to see the inside of Grant’s pad again.
“You said I should feel totally relaxed and comfortable,” Grant insisted. “And I can’t ever feel totally comfortable on your bed. That thing should be condemned.”
“That thing has the best memory foam mattress money can buy.”
“That’s as may be, but it’s not a patch on a proper box spring. And my pillows are feather, which is a must if I’m going to be the pillow-biter.”
Dare laughed then and unlocked the gate. “Come on in, then. I’d better fetch some supplies.”
“No need. I’ve got everything we need at the flat. Top-of-the-range lube and everything.”
Dare had somehow been forgetting that Grant was an experienced top, even if he had a lot to learn as a bottom. “Okay, then. I guess I can come as I am.” He glanced down at his workmen’s trousers, complete with oil stains and tools poking out of his pockets. “You think I’ll pass muster if we run into one of your neighbours? Maybe they’ll think I’m a plumber or something.”
“Fuck the neighbours.”
“I’d rather fuck you.”
Grant raised an eyebrow. “I should certainly hope so.”
They walked along the riverside bank to Grant’s. It was that peculiar hour of dusk when all the reds and oranges glowed, even as the light leached out of the sky. Dare was glad Grant didn’t keep up the small talk. There was something fitting about the silence, and the still, mild evening air. His whole body thrummed with excitement, and he had to work hard to stop himself from linking arms with Grant. He had a feeling that wouldn’t go down so well, which was a shame, because evenings like this were made for walking along, arm in arm with your lover.
Your about-to-get-his-arse-cherry-popped lover. Dare grinned to himself, enjoying that sense of pride that Grant was going to let him be the very first. He’d been a couple of bloke’s firsts in the past—or so they’d said—but something about this felt even more special. Maybe it was just that Grant was such an unlikely candidate. Worlds away from the grungy, punky, alternative lads who normally tried it on with Dare.
Or maybe it was that irritating way Grant had got under his skin. The way the bloke had made Dare want him desperately, even though he absolutely wasn’t his usual type.
Dare was still pondering just what it was about Grant that had him wanting more, when he realised they were standing outside his building. He stared up at the windows he knew to be Grant’s. Then he bumped shoulders with Grant. “You ready for this?”
Grant took a deep breath. “Yes. I think so.”
“No disaster if it doesn’t work out,” Dare began, but Grant spoke over him.
“Let’s just see what happens, shall we?”
“Sounds good to me.”
The interior of the building was a little less brand-spanking-new now—after all, it had been a long time since Dare escorted a drunken Grant back from that party of Mas and Perry’s—but still immaculately clean. Jesus, what must Grant make of Dare’s dirty little caravan? They walked up the stairs together, the silence now growing oppressive. Why hadn’t they taken the lift? Was Grant really ashamed in case they ran into someone? Dare felt like he was being taken in the tradesman’s entrance, and had to remind himself they’d entered via the front door.
And that he was the one about to be taking Grant up the tradesman’s entrance.
The thought restored his pride, and he walked up the last few steps with a swagger.
“So, do you want a drink first?” Grant said the moment they got inside.
“Not really.” Dare glanced around the room. It looked pretty much the same as he remembered it: bland neutral colours and a kind of show-home ambiance. But the furnishings were at least comfortable and well made, and the large framed photograph on the wall caught his eye again. The one that showed the Clifton Suspension Bridge spanning the gorge, hot air balloons dotted in the sky above. “Nice picture,” Dare commented.
“Thanks.” Something smug in Grant’s tone suggested the picture might have been more than just a canny purchase.
“Is it one of yours?” he asked.
“I took it during the Balloon Fiesta a couple of years back.”
Dare walked up and studied the picture properly. He was no photographer, but he could tell it was an excellent piece of work. The detail and the colours were stunning. “You’re good,” he said, but left it at that. Grant’s ego really didn’t need inflating any further. “I must get up there again sometime. Used to love hanging out on the bridge when I was a teenager. Dropping empty beer cans down into the river below, and timing how long it took them before they splashed.”
“You dropped litter?” Grant sounded disgusted. Of course, he was a parent and probably had to drum those sorts of values into his kids, the same way Dare’s mum had tried to do.
“It was a long time ago,” Dare muttered and looked around the room again. The door to the tiny kitchen was open, and there were only three others to choose from: two next to each other on one wall, and a single door on the other. He seemed to remember the master bedroom had been the door by itself, and headed over.
“Not that way.” Grant grabbed Dare’s arms and hauled him in the opposite direction. He indicated the door to the right. “That’s the bathroom, if you need it,” before pushing open the other door.
Dare blinked, puzzled. The bedroom on the other side was nothing like he remembered from his brief glance, admittedly almost twelve months ago. Far smaller for a start. The king-size bed filled up nearly all the floor space, and the only other items of furniture were two small bedside tables, and a built-in, mirror-fronted wardrobe on the wall adjoining the bathroom.
This was a spare bedroom, surely?
The snobbish bastard. Dare spun around and marched right out, across the living room.
“Where are you going?”
“If I’m doing this, I want it to be on the best bed in the house.” Dare flung the door open and stopped short.
He was still gaping at the room beyond when Grant came up and put his arms around Dare’s waist. “It would be way too weird to do it on a bed covered in some god-awful boy band’s faces.”
“You gave up your bedroom for your daughters?”
“It seemed like the best thing. They need the space more than I do.”
“But you’re only having them, what, four nights a month?”
“It stops them arguing. Anything for a peaceful life when they’re here.” The words sounded flippant, but Grant’s tone was too affectionate to really believe that was his only motive.
