Not Every Time by Alexa Milne
Angelo Raziel Slade glared at the bathroom door behind which stood his best friend, Jack Hastings. He shrugged on his jacket and sat on the bed. “For heaven’s sake, Jack, stop complaining. This is your work’s Christmas party, and we’re only here because I’m tired of you whining about your pathetic love life.”
“I realize that, but you know how much I hate these occasions. Last year— No, I don’t want to remember that debacle. I want it made clear that I’m only here because you insisted and said you’d come with me. You know what I’m like.”
Raz sighed. He certainly did.
“I’m hopeless with small talk. Women come up to me and I panic. How come you can speak to women? Is it something to do with being gay? Do you lot have a special understanding of how women think, or what?”
Jack emerged from the bathroom, opened his arms wide and twirled. “So, will I do?” he asked.
Raz swallowed a gasp and crossed his legs. Oh, my God. You will do, but you could wear a sack and you’d do for me. “You clean up well. I told you a suit would be better. Women prefer men in a suit, but with more than a hint of stubble and the suggestion there might be something worth investigating underneath.”
“Is that the sort of men you like?” Jack asked.
Raz stood and closed the distance between them. “This tie needs adjusting, though. Here, let me do it.” Up close, the smell of his friend’s aftershave filled his senses. Why did he torture himself in this way? So I can be near him. Because I can’t bear the idea of not being near him.
“There, that’s better. A tie needs a Windsor knot. My father used to say you should always make an effort to be at your best.”
“You must miss them at this time of year,” Jack said, placing a hand on Raz’s arm.
Raz stared over Jack’s shoulder through the window into the dark December night. “My father was always too busy saving the planet to have much time for me, and I don’t remember my mother.”
“Just as well that my family love the bones of you then. You are still coming to ours for Christmas Day, aren’t you? Mum and Dad would skin me alive if you didn’t, not to mention Lisa. They think the sun shines out of your backside.”
“Yes, I’ll be there as usual. I thought Lisa was bringing Bradley this time, now that they’re official.”
“She is. He’s a brave man taking on my sister. Right, let’s get this over with. I’m glad we booked the room so we can both have a drink.” Raz pulled a face.
“It’s all right. I’m not going to have too much because women don’t like a drunk. And I know to ask questions, but not suck up too much if I see anyone I fancy. The place will be packed, so perhaps this will be the night.” He nudged Raz. “All those bankers together in one room.”
“That’s one word for them,” Raz whispered to himself.
Jack put his hands on his hips and struck what Raz called his Henry VIII pose. “Look, you insisted I come tonight and stop sitting at home complaining no one loves me and that my wrist aches.”
“Well, you won’t find Ms. Right if you stay home with me every Saturday night, now will you?” Even if I love every minute of it and hate the thought you might not be there.
The Proof is in the Pudding by Nic Starr
Chapter One
Whose stupid idea was it to make a Christmas pudding? Oh right, mine. For God's sake, it was over thirty degrees Celsius in the shade and the kitchen was like a bloody sauna. Steve could feel the perspiration beading on his forehead, the slow circling of the ceiling fan overhead hardly stirring the warm air. He tore a piece of paper towel from the roll in the dispenser and used it to dab his brow before chucking the crumpled wad in the bin and stalking over to the switch on the wall. He twisted the dial, smiling in satisfaction as the fan sped up and a gentle breeze wafted against his heated skin.
Steve had no doubt he looked terrible. Hot and sweaty, with his face flushed and his brown hair plastered to the back of his neck. He really should have gotten a haircut before coming on this trip, but he'd had hardly had time to pack due to his work obligations, let alone the luxury of much preparation. That's what you got when your caring, don't-take-no-for-an-answer friends dragged you out into the real world while your boss was breathing down your neck.
He washed his hands under the cool water from the sink then dried them on his cargo shorts. The beige shorts were covered in...What is that gross brown slimy stuff? He peered closer. Mushed sultanas by the looks of things. On further observation, his T-shirt hadn't fared much better. Maybe he should have worn an apron, or at least made an attempt to wipe his hands on the tea towel and not his clothes. He shook his head as he spun on his heel and returned to the kitchen bench. It didn't fucking matter, he had no one to impress anyway.
With a disgusted sigh, he went back to the task of mixing the dried fruit he'd been chopping and dicing, for what felt like hours. Sultanas, currants, raisins--no wonder his shorts were so sticky--and green apples. He'd even chucked in a grated carrot as he followed his mum's recipe. It was taken straight from the Australian Women's Weekly so how could it go wrong? At least, he hoped that would be the case. It'd piss him off to no end if he went to all this effort and the pudding turned out like crap.
"What did whatever's in that bowl do to you, Steve?" Malcolm asked from the doorway.
"What?" Steve gave his best friend a brief glance before turning his attention back to his ingredients. "I don't know what you're talking about." The metal spoon dinged on the edge of the stainless steel bowl with each agitated rotation. Steve grunted as he put more elbow grease into the motion, ensuring each piece of fruit was liberally coated in brandy.
Malcolm walked closer and peered into the bowl of brown mush. "Are you mixing or pureeing?" he chuckled.
Steve stopped stirring and glared at Malcolm, suddenly aware of the ache in his muscles. Malcolm grinned back, his smile wide. Steve couldn't help but mirror that open smile. Malcolm was a good guy and maybe, just maybe, he was being a tad aggressive with the mixture. Steve let go of the spoon, allowing it to clang against the bowl.
"Fuck. I need a drink." He eyed the brandy bottle sitting on the kitchen bench but in truth he wasn't really tempted to swig that cheap stuff.
"C'mon, take a break. Come outside and have a beer."
"Yeah. Just give me a sec." Steve used some plastic film to cover his bowl and put it in the fridge to marinate overnight. He'd use the brandy-infused fruit the next day to make the Christmas pudding.
While the fridge was open, Malcolm used the opportunity to snag a couple of bottles from the door and headed to the deck. Steve followed, holding a bottle in each hand.
* * * * *
Malcolm led the way with Steve hot on his heels. Steve let out another sigh, this time of relief, as he exited the oppressive heat of the house and stepped onto the deck where the rest of the guys were already making themselves comfortable, and had been doing so for hours.
Douglas and Matt, the only couple amongst them, were seated around the timber outdoor setting, empty bottles on the table in front of them. Malcolm passed out the fresh beers and grunted as he dropped into a chair. Ken was sprawled on the Balinese-style daybed, balancing a jar of salsa on his ample chest. The corn chips were in a bowl on the coffee table, well within reaching distance, and Ken was making a continuous circuit from bowl to dip to mouth. He stopped briefly to grab the beer Steve thrust his way.
Steve had expected it to be cooler in the mountains but it seemed they were having a hotter summer than usual. It was still warm, even this late in the afternoon, although there was a faint breeze that had started to cool things down. The temperature had dropped slightly from the heat of the middle of the day. Steve welcomed taking a break from cooking and leaned his arse up against the railing as he raised the bottle to his lips. The beer was cold and wet, and went down like a treat. At the first welcome sip, some of his earlier tension started to melt away. Just being here, so far from the city and his usual routine, was already working its magic.
"Holy shit!" They all turned at the exclamation, to stare at the slim figure framed in the wide doorway. "This place is freaking amazing, and the view is spectacular. It's no wonder we're paying a small fortune to stay here." The owner of the voice laughed. "Just...wow."
"Corey!" The name echoed as the guys greeted their late arrival. Corey glanced around the group, a broad smile lighting up his face. Warmth snuck up Steve's neck and touched his face as his gaze met Corey's dark eyes. Steve nodded, suddenly tongue-tied as Corey moved closer.
"Holy shit," Corey murmured again, and stepped up to the balustrade.
Steve found his heart in his mouth as he gazed at Corey's outline framed by the spectacular mountain backdrop. Fuck, fuck, shit! He hadn't known Corey was joining the group on this trip, and had initially been relieved when he'd noticed Corey's absence. Bloody Mal. He looked away from Corey's cute arse to where his friend was sitting at the table. From the shit-eating grin on Malcolm's face, Steve knew this was his doing. Fuck! Now, Steve didn't know if he was annoyed or excited, as his racing heartbeat could have been attributed to either.
Steve had known Corey for over a year, and had thought he was gorgeous for just as long--something that had pissed Steve's boyfriend, now ex-boyfriend, off. Steve's stomach plummeted as he thought of Richard. He gave himself a mental kick. For God's sake, it's been months. This week is all about getting on with my life. Stop thinking about that arsehole. But forgetting was easier said than done. He thought back to Richard and his reaction to Corey. In reality, Richard should have had no reason to be worried about Steve and his feelings towards anyone else. However, Steve had never been able to make Richard understand that, just because he found another man attractive, didn't make Richard any less appealing and there was no fucking way in hell Steve would have initiated anything with another man anyway. Look but don't touch was fine, but that was it. Steve had seen enough infidelity to know he could never put anyone in that position. Shame Richard hadn't felt the same way. Arsehole.
Thoughts of Richard fled as Corey's gaze met his again. He shot Steve a smile that went straight to Steve's heart--okay, if he was honest, straight to his dick. Steve attempted an answering grin then focused on lowering himself into a nearby chair to hide his unexpected arousal. A sideways glance showed him that Mal was still smirking.
Corey bounced on the balls of his feet and peered over the railing then glanced back at the house, all the while talking. "What time did you guys arrive? It was a shit drive due to traffic, but not so bad once I got off the expressway. Worth it, though, from the looks of this place." Corey was cheery for someone who'd just driven a two-hundred and fifty kilometre road trip from Sydney to the Barrington Tops in holiday traffic.
"Coupla hours," Douglas said. "Matt and I drove up with Ken."
"And Steve and I arrived first thing this morning," added Mal. "Steve was keen to get started on his world famous Christmas pudding." He winked at Steve.
"Fuck off," Steve responded.
"Did you, or did you not, say you needed time to cook the damn thing? Your exact words, if I recall correctly, were ‘the fruit needs time to marinate so the flavours can develop.'" The guys laughed at Mal's falsetto.
"Fuck off. I'm just doing what Mum told me."
"I think it's great you're making the pudding," Matt said. "I'm sure you'll do a fabulous job. We may make a chef out of you yet."
"Thank you," Steve said, his expression serious. He tipped his bottle toward Matt in salute.
"You'll give Gordon Ramsay a run for his money with that potty-mouth of yours," Ken called from his spot on the daybed.
"Oh, for fuck's sake--" Steve started.
"See what I mean?" Ken chuckled.
Steve rolled his eyes as all the guys, his supposed friends, laughed. "You're the ones who voted me to take charge of the pudding."
"Yeah, but I didn't think you'd make one. You could've just bought one you know," Matt said.
When the group had been making arrangements for the Christmas week away, they'd discussed plans for Christmas Day. Over a couple of rounds of beer, they'd divvied up cooking chores. A couple of years ago they'd done the same thing--a week away with the boys for Christmas, that time to the beach--and his ex, Richard, had taken charge of the pudding. Richard had purchased one of those gourmet puddings, the cost of which could probably have fed a family for a week, and he had provided store-bought, but top of the line, egg custard. There was no way in hell that Steve was going to buy a pudding. He was going to do his damned best to outdo Richard's ostentatious offering. Even if it kills me, he thought ruefully.
An Assassin's Holiday by Dirk Greyson
I KILL people; it’s what I do. It’s all I know, and dammit, I’m very good at my job—and, in turn, my job has been good to me. The last thing on earth that I have is money worries. Unlike the guy who just passed me on the street, stinking of desperation and fear as he heads home to a tiny apartment filled with a wife and kids, wondering how he’s going to make the next rent payment. I could almost see him making calculations in his head to figure out if he’s going to have enough money to make ends meet for one more month.
I never have worries like that. As I said, I’m good at what I do, and I’m paid highly for it. There will be no wondering if my imaginary children will have presents this Christmas, because I could afford any present I wanted without giving it a second thought. Which I don’t, because at this very moment, I’m close.
My target is a block away, and my mind zeroes in on the task at hand. Slowly, I pat the pocket on the inside of my coat, making sure what I need is still there. I don’t feel the cold trying to lick its way through the fabric or up the sleeve of my coat. Minor distractions, like the few flakes of snow that began falling a few minutes ago and are now getting heavier and thicker, barely register in my mind. I know where everyone is around me, and yet I hardly see them. The old man with a cane and tiny dog a few steps behind me and falling farther back. The lady in her thirties rushing past me, arms filled with Christmassy department store bags. As she passes, my senses reach out for any sign of a threat. There is nothing.
After all, I’m the threat. If you cross my path or end up on my list of targets, then hell, for all intents and purposes, I’m the fucking Grim Reaper. And I like it that way. No one messes with me, and I have everything I could possibly desire: a safe place to live, comfort most could only dream of, food, drink, heat in the winter, air-conditioning in the summer, and security. All the things I’d been without for large portions of my life. I have them all now. Every tick box on my proverbial Christmas list has been checked.
“Excuse me,” a man says as he comes out of one of the stores, bumping me with a bag that he then proceeds to drop on the ground.
Without thinking I pick it up and hand it to him.
“Merry Christmas.”
“You too,” I respond with a slight smile that lasts for just a few seconds before the training and goal creep back into my head, and I move on. A few steps later, I surprise myself and turn around to look after him, but the man is gone. I continue down the sidewalk.
My quarry is just ahead. I can see him coming out of his office the same time tonight as he has for the last week. He’s a model of clockwork and predictability. I love guys like that—it makes my job so much easier. Know your target, get into his head, watch him, know his routine, and when the time comes, get in and out fast, cleanly, invisibly. Then disappear into the city with no one the wiser.
Merry Gentlemen by Josephine Myles
You could lose yourself in Stan’s eyes. Well, I could. They reminded me of sun-bleached denim, with a deeper indigo ring around the outside. They were the kind of eyes that spoke of hard work in the great outdoors, and if it hadn’t been for the fact they’d been just the same back when he’d slaved away as a housing officer, I’d believe they really had been lightened by the sun. His hair certainly had. I’d always thought of him as a dirty blond rather than a honey one.
I still thought of him as a dirty blond, although not because of the colour of his hair.
Before my brain could get hijacked by thoughts of just how dirty Stan could be, I recovered my manners and stuck my hand out.
“Stan. Fancy seeing you here. I had no idea. Really.”
Stan stared at my hand like I was offering him a slice of mouldy pizza. I was just about to snatch it back when he grabbed it and held on.
“Ri? You look… You haven’t changed. Not one bit.”
Normally I’d preen a little at a comment like that. Make some allusion to Botox—not that I had any desire to freeze the expression out of my forehead, as how would I cope if I couldn’t do my patented single-eyebrow raise?
But right now, with Stan holding my hand in his rough, calloused—oh my God, he had genuine, honest to goodness callouses!—paw, I found it hard to do anything other than fight down my body’s instinctive response to him. I wanted to hit him and I wanted to lick him all over, and I couldn’t bloody well figure out which urge was winning.
Actually, right now I needed to stop paying any attention to my body and concentrate on keeping my cool. Couldn’t have Stan seeing me ruffled.
“Well, you’ve definitely changed,” I said. “You’ve got that whole rugged, outdoorsy vibe working for you now.” I didn’t need to hide the fact I was checking him out, thank Christ, so I took my time drinking in the sight of him. “Going back to nature really does pay off, doesn’t it? Shit, you never bulked up this well in the gym. And you’re tanned in the winter, but not a streak of orange to be seen. It’s a modern day miracle. Hallelujah.”
“I don’t need to fake it,” Stan growled, tilting his head back to look down at me and making the most of his three-inch height advantage. It was his arrogant-bastard pose, and he bloody well knew I was a sucker for it because I’d once made the mistake of telling him. Never, ever let a toppy git know just how much they turn you on, or you’ll spend your whole bloody life in a state of perpetual turned-on-ness. Was that even a word? It was now.
“What happened to your hair?” I said, reaching out for a lock. “Totally hot, but aren’t you getting a bit old for the whole surfer look? And you’re way too landlocked, down in deepest, darkest Somersetshire.”
“Piss off, Ri,” Stan said, but there was no heat in his words. The heat was all in his eyes, beaming out and frying me like a laser beam. They’d find me later, nothing more than a pair of melted boot soles on the cobbles.
Was that angry heat or turned-on heat? Couldn’t figure it out on him either. I had to face it, we both had ample reason to be pissed off with each other, but five years was a long time to hold a grudge.
“Much as I’d love to get on my way, it’s actually my job to check up on you. See if there’s anything you need any help with. Lend a hand, you know.” Jesus, could I have made that sound any more like a come-on? Clearly my mouth was in cahoots with my dick rather than my brain. I bit the inside of my lower lip, just to show it who was boss.
But Stan just carried on staring at me, while the sun-warmed denim of his eyes frosted over.
“Right. Just your job.” Oh, that guttural Slovakian accent! After the best part of a decade of living in the UK, Stan’s had definitely mellowed compared to when we’d first met, but it was still sexy as hell. “I’ll make sure I let you know if there’s anything you can help me with.” He stepped a little closer then, and tucked both thumbs into the waistband of his combats, hands framing his package like I needed any reminding of what was hidden in there. Well, not so hidden. Whereas I was a grower, Stan was most definitely a show-er, meaning his tackle was almost as big flaccid as it was erect. Not that that was a disappointment. More of a relief, really. If he’d got any bigger when hard, I’d have had to make like a snake and dislocate my jaw before giving him a blowjob.
And I really didn’t need to be remembering blowing Stan right now.
I thought I’d concealed my arousal pretty damn well, but something must have registered, because Stan got this triumphant grin. “You’d better get back to work. Can’t have you giving up your chance at climbing the corporate ladder for my sake.” And the bastard turned his back on me and went back to fiddling with the display board.
Ouch. That was an old barb, and one I’d had thrown at me many times in the months leading to our breakup. Or my dumping, as I thought of it in my maudlin moments. Usually while cradling a glass of pinot noir and listening to bluesy jazz.
I had to set things straight. Let Stan know I’d turned over a new leaf. “Actually, I’m working for the council now. Public sector. Not corporate.”
“And I should care why, exactly?”
Double ouch. And worse yet, I knew I probably deserved it, as I had made it very clear my career was the priority back then.
“I’ll be on my way, then. If you need anything, Janine and I are patrolling. Should be one of us checking up on you every half hour or so. Oh, and I’m sorry about your pitch.” I indicated the litter bin that sat in front of it. “Not the best we have to offer. You’ll have to get in quick next year if you want one of the prime ones with decent footfall.”
Stan just shrugged. “It’s fine. I’m used to things being quiet.”
“Yeah, I bet.” I wanted to ask him more about how it was going out in the woods, but he’d made it pretty clear he didn’t want to talk. “Bye, then.”
I got a grunt in response. Bloody charming.
Cavemen. You can try to civilise them, but the minute they get back to the great outdoors, they go all feral again. I pitied the good folk of Somerset, having to put up with a grumpy old hermit in their midst.
And I kind of envied them too.
Yeah, I was so not over Stan, it wasn’t even funny.
“You do. Just pretend we’re back home in the garage. You’re ready. Do you think I’d let you onstage with us if you weren’t?”
