Hot Sheets
SHEETS
by
GORDON
Hot Sheets
first published in 1998 by Hodder & Stoughton. Published as an
eBook in 2013 by Chimera eBooks.
ISBN
9781780802633
Chimera (
ki-mir'a,
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fantasy.
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This work is
sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or
otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated
without the publisher's prior written consent in any form of
binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and
without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent
purchaser. The author asserts that all characters depicted in this
work of fiction are eighteen years of age or older, and that all
characters and situations are entirely imaginary and bear no
relation to any real person or actual happening.
Copyright Ray
Gordon. The right of Ray Gordon to be identified as author of this
book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the
Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.
This novel is
fiction - in real life practice safe sex.
One
The fire alarm
resounded throughout Stokepot Towers. Bounding down the stairs, the
proprietor, Mike Hunt, tried to keep his cool. "Don't panic! Don't
panic!" he cried, hurdling the last few steps to the smoke-filled
foyer. "Sacred bollocks! Fire! Fire!" Tearing across reception and
bursting into the kitchen, Mike stared in horror at the bonfire
erupting from the cooker.
"The bloody
frying pan's on fire! Christ, Dave, what the hell are you
doing?"
"Er... sorry,
Mike, the gas was too high," the good-looking young man grinned
sheepishly as he opened the back door, his unruly blond hair
cascading over his fresh, tanned face.
"Fuck me, do
something! Use the fire blanket!"
"I can't."
"Why the fuck
not?"
"We haven't
got one."
"Shit! OK,
take it outside - carefully!"
Watching his haphazard chef don a pair of oven gloves to exit
the impromptu
flambé
into the back yard, Mike sighed. There were fifteen breakfasts
to serve, Goldie the waitress hadn't made an appearance, the bacon
had become pork scratchings and the phone was ringing incessantly.
This is no way to run a hotel, he ruminated, his soulful, deep-set
eyes following the trajectory of four smouldering pieces of bread
as they shot out of the toaster and plunged into a pan of boiling
baked beans.
"Dave, can't
you get anything right?" Mike asked despairingly as the befuddled
cook leapt into the kitchen and flung the red-hot frying pan into
the sink, smashing several dirty plates. "You are a spunk bubble, I
ought to kick your arse! Christ, why doesn't someone answer the
bloody phone?"
"A change of
menu. A mange is as good as a breast," Dave murmured pensively as
he opened the fridge door, the handle breaking off in his hand.
"Christ, now
you've knackered the fridge! Mind you, the way you waste food, we
don't need a bloody fridge! I hope that wasn't fresh bacon?"
"No, it was
off - going green and blue round the edges, like an ageing
prostitute's inner cunt lips."
"It's still a
bloody waste. Why's life so fucking hard?"
"I don't know,
I was drunk at the time. Actually, life's rather like my cock, it
has its ups and downs!" Dave chuckled, trying to make light of the
situation as he tossed the fridge handle onto the floor. "Sometimes
it's hard, and sometimes it's..."
"Do we have to
discuss your cock first thing in the morning?"
"Sorry, it's a
trait I inherited from my mother. Always on about cocks, she
was."
"A girl's
juicy cunt, yes, but not your cock!"
"Morning, noon
and night - cocks, cocks, cocks."
"Was she a
nymphomaniac?"
"No, she was a
seamstress. My father had her shot."
"That's one
way to silence her, I suppose."
"She's just a
distant mammary now. Which reminds me, why are cunts like a rainy
midsummer's day?" Dave grinned, kicking the fridge door shut.
"What?"
"Because
they're hot and wet!"
"You'll be hot
and wet in a minute! Talking of hot, wet cunts, where the hell's
Goldie?"
"I don't know,
I haven't seen her."
"She's
probably frigging herself off somewhere. All she ever thinks about
is her clitoris!"
"She can't
help it, Mike, she's illegitimate - born out of wedlock."
"That doesn't
surprise me!"
"I blame her
mother."
"Fuck her
mother!"
"Someone must
have."
Casting his
eyes around the kitchen, Mike sighed. Grease and fat dripping from
the walls, daylight barely ably to penetrate the grime covering the
windows, the tiled floor littered with potato peelings,
breadcrumbs, bacon rind...The entire kitchen needed high pressure
steam blasting! he thought, focusing on something brown and
shrivelled smeared on the floor in the corner, strikingly
resembling... no, it couldn't be!
"God, look at
the state of this bloody kitchen, Dave!" he stormed, running his
hand over the filthy worktop. "It's reminiscent of a fucking
piggery!"
"It's home
from home to me, I was raised in a piggery."
"Where the
hell did you do your training, at a bloody sewage farm?"
"The canteen
at the gas board, I couldn't get into catering college."
"Then why did
you have the gas so high? Was it another one of your inexplicable
moments of madness?"
"That might
explain it. Don't worry, Mike, I'll deal with the breakfasts and
then clean up. Believe me, everything's under control. Shit, the
beans are boiling over! Beans boiled are beans spoiled!"
"Under
control, my knob! God, all I ask is to be with normal people. Argh,
the bells, the bells! Christ, I'd better turn that fucking racket
off, it's enough to wake the dead."
Crashing
through the kitchen door into the foyer, Mike grinned at an
attractive young brunette standing by the reception desk. "Ah,
er... good morning," he greeted her, straightening his dark blue
tie. "I won't keep you a minute, I have to turn the fire alarm
off."
Dashing to the understairs cupboard and yanking out an old
vacuum cleaner and several mops and buckets, he reached to a
control box and flicked a switch.
Jesus,
look at the fucking mess in here!
Peace
restored, he brushed his dishevelled dark hair back as he popped
his head round the dining room door.
"Good morning,
breakfast won't be long now," he smiled to the bewildered
guests.
"Oh dear, is
there a fire?" a frail, elderly lady wheezed as she held the
tablecloth to her face. "Oh, the smoke, I can hardly breathe!"
"There's no
fire, just a minor incident in the kitchen, Miss Chaste -
everything's under control," Mike assured the flustered resident.
"Please, don't blow your nose on the bloody tablecloth!"
"Ye Gods!
Smells pretty damned foul to me, old boy!" Colonel Buckshot
grunted, his waxed moustache twitching as he sniffed the air. "What
the devil have you been up to?"
"Just trying
to piece together life's endless jigsaw puzzle, Colonel," Mike
sighed hopelessly.
"I hope it
wasn't my damned breakfast! What!"
"No, it wasn't
your damned... it wasn't your breakfast."
"Is it too
much to ask for coffee, old man?"
"What? You
want coffee now, this minute?"
"If it's not
too much trouble."
Jesus Christ!
"All right, all right I'll see to it."
"The colonel
was talking about... about mutiny," Miss Chaste chipped in
nervously.
"Er, no, no I
wasn't! Do you know, back in fifty-six..."
"Yes you were!
You said that, unless things improve here, we should..."
"She's lost
it, old boy!" the colonel winked at Mike. "Mutiny, indeed! Or was
it fifty-five?"
"Just chat
amongst yourselves for a while," Mike sighed, closing the door.
I'll give him
mutiny, the fucking old git! he thought, moving across the foyer to
the reception desk. A fine start to the day! But it was nothing
unusual for Stokepot Towers, where one horrendous problem after
another seemed to be the norm. Gazing at the attractive young
woman, Mike prayed that she'd want a room for a week. Christ knows,
I need the money! But, no doubt, she'd be problematic.
"Sorry about
that, madam," he smiled nervously. "Welcome to Stokepot
Towers."
"Smokepot,
don't you mean?" the woman coughed, fanning the thick fog away from
her angelic face.
"Er... a minor
incident in the kitchen, I'm afraid. Normally, things here at
Stokepot Towers run as smooth as a shaved... anyway, how can I help
you?" Mike smiled, scrutinizing the dusky delicacy's full red lips.
Ever had your mouth fucked?
Her dark
chestnut hair in a bob, her hazel eyes mirroring an endearing air
of innocence, she was a cordon bleu morsel indeed, Mike surmised.
Her tailored blue suit was obviously haute couture and her
exquisite white silk blouse wasn't off the peg, either, he
observed. No housewife, that's for sure! he pondered, admiring her
delicate baby-smooth hands, her perfectly manicured nails. The
woman radiated an air of elegance he'd not known before. There was
something strangely enigmatic about her, but he couldn't quite put
his finger on it, or up it - yet! Lovely though she was, though, he
was sure she'd be trouble. Most women are!
"Do you have
any rooms?" the mysterious beauty spluttered as she held a white
lace handkerchief to her grimacing face.
"Er... sorry,
I was daydreaming."
"Do you have
any rooms?"
"Of course I
have rooms! In case you hadn't noticed, this is a hotel! What did
you think it was, a chapel of rest?"
"Any free
rooms, I mean."
"Good God,
there'd be coffins strewn all over the... what did you say?"
"Do you have
any free rooms?"
"No, certainly
not! Free rooms? This isn't the Salvation bloody Army!"
"Then you
should display a sign outside."
"It's pretty
obvious that this isn't the Salvation Army. There'd be trombones
and bibles scattered everywhere if..."
"A No
Vacancies sign."
"But we have
plenty of vacancies."
"You do have
rooms then?"
"Yes, how many
would you like?"
"I'm
sorry?"
God, help me!
"How - many - rooms - would - you - like?"
"It's all
right, I'm not deaf! I only want one room."
"Fine, fine! A
one-night stand, is it? I mean, a one-night stay?"
"Yes, just the
one night."
"Breakfast?"
"One had
breakfast on the train - fortunately!"
Oh, did one? Spiffing, jolly good show
. "What I meant was - bed and breakfast, or just a
bed?"
"Oh, I see.
Bed and breakfast, please - and a meal this evening."
"Good, the
more money the better. Er... right, just let me make a note of
that," Mike smiled, grabbing a pen. "So, that's bed, evening meal,
and breakfast. Well, not necessarily in that order, you understand.
Unlike the Salvation Army, we don't serve evening meals in bed, or
before breakfast, for that matter!"
"Yes, quite.
May I see this evening's menu?"
"No, that's
not possible."
"Oh, why
not?"
"Because I
haven't done the menus yet. I can't do everything at once! What do
you think I am, bloody Superman?"
"I'm sorry, I
just wanted to know in advance so..."
"Whatever is
the urgency? Can't you wait until this evening? I mean, do you have
to know what's on this evening's menu this early in the
morning?"
"Well, no,
I..."
"Do you have
an eating disorder?"
"No, it's just
that..."
"Shall we get
on with the job in hand or would you like to discuss next year's
Christmas party bookings? Right, what name..."
"I
only..."
"Don't
interrupt!"
His head
aching, his pen poised over the register, Mike wondered what on
earth he was doing running a hotel when he could be sitting by a
river beneath the warm summer sun fishing for trout. With one
insurmountable problem after another, he should never have bought
the place, he reflected - trout fishing was a far better way to
spend his days.