Men of London 06 - Flying Solo

THE MEN OF LONDON

From Canning Town to Royal Docks,
there’s no escaping love.

ABOVE AND BEYOND

Maxwell Lewis is proud of the life he’s made. Having turned tragedy into triumph, he’s now a beloved member of a Target Airlines cabin crew with more than his fair share of attention both in the air and on the ground. But lately he’s wanted something more than the occasional hook-up or sometime sex buddy—particularly after meeting game designer and passenger Gibson Henry.

Talented and driven, Gibson has built a company ready to be the next big thing in gaming. Devoted to his work, he takes onetime pleasures where he finds them and never does repeats…which is what he tells handsome, sexy Maxwell Lewis after a little mile-high flight attendance. But a chance encounter in a London club is about to change things forever. Two men, one who’s flown solo and another who’s only ever played alone, are about to find that at some point all games come to end, it’s time to bare your heart and try for love.

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.

FLYING SOLO
Copyright © 2016 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 978-1-944262-12-9

To those people with nowhere to go, the homeless of the world as they struggle to survive. We do see you; it’s simply that sometimes we can’t acknowledge you’re there. To do so would mean feeling uncomfortable and having a conscience. We should all try harder to help you and make sure you can always be seen.

Also, to those who care about them, the charities and people who help without judgement: You are the true heroes. Never forget that you do make a difference, and for that we are all forever grateful.

The character of Maxwell is loosely based on a friend of mine called Warren Joseph Allen. We’ve had some conversations I can’t repeat here, because I’m a lady, and he’s taught me a few things I really didn’t need to know but enjoyed learning about all the same. He’s sassy, a diva, but much like Maxwell in character—I believe, anyway. Thanks, Warren, for allowing me to use certain personal insights, quirks and habits in my story. I won’t tell which ones are true, if you won’t.  Hint: He can be bribed to tell all for the price of a pair of Andrew Christians.

The game Gibson is designing is a bit of fun. 
Camp Queen
 sounded like a rollicking good game, though, and if anyone fancies developing it, let me know. It could be a lot of fun.

Prologue

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15

Author Notes
About the Author
Other Books by Susan MacNicol

Snowflakes drifted past Mooch, peppering his already freezing face with pinpricks of icy spite. Huddled under his tattered blanket, he pulled his threadbare jersey and jacket tighter around his shuddering body. The shop doorway he and Levi sheltered in was scarce protection from the heavy flakes blanketing the dismal London streets.

In the corner, curled into a foetal ball, Levi slept, face under a bright red cover sprinkled with stark white. Mooch had recently returned from a bit of dumpster diving to find his street partner sleeping. Despite his ire at that fact—Levi was supposed to be watching their stuff—Mooch hadn’t the heart to wake him. Sleep came grudgingly to Levi. Instead Mooch had checked they still had their meagre belongings and had given a sigh of relief when he confirmed they were intact.

As for food, he’d found nothing other than half a sandwich already green and mouldy and not worth eating. Mooch had standards and he wasn’t prepared to risk another bout of gastroenteritis for himself or Levi.

He reached over and tucked the grimy blanket over Levi, making sure the hand out in the open was pushed back under the thin covering—a hand already blue and cold, its fingernails ragged and bitten and spattered with cuts and nicks.

Mooch was tired; the cold had invaded his body like a sly enemy trying to wear him down, trying to make him acquiesce to the demand he simply lie down and never wake up.

“Not going to happen,” he muttered through chapped, torn lips. “Bitch is not going to get the better of me.” He glanced over at Levi. “Not while he needs me anyway.”

No matter how he’d tried to cajole Levi off drugs with sex, love and threats of leaving him, nothing made a difference. If Mooch thought it might help, he’d find Levi’s dealers and punch their lights out, warn them to leave him alone. But Mooch knew, as soon as one went down, another low life sprung up in their place. At least Levi had one woman he trusted who was better than a stranger. It was safer for him that way.

A passer-by glanced at them, a faint look of disgust on his face. Mooch sneered, willing the stranger to pass so Mooch couldn’t see his look of contempt, and at the same time imploring him to toss a few coins their way so he and Levi could get something warm to eat. It wasn’t to be, and Mooch got his first wish watching the retreating back of the man clad in heavy, warm clothing and sturdy boots.

“Bastard,” he mumbled. “It’s nearly Christmas. Couldn’t you spare a few pounds? You could certainly afford to lose some.”

He cackled at his own joke, his amusement turning to a hacking cough threatening to rip his insides out through his throat. Once his coughing fit had subsided, he hunkered down further inside his blanket and watched the few commuters passing. He was close to sleep when a soft hand fell on his shoulder, and when he looked up, the kindly face of an older woman stared at him as she pressed a five-pound note into his hand, along with a steaming cup of coffee.

“You look as if you could use this,” she whispered. “I wish I could do more. You’re a kid.”

She smiled sadly and went on her way as Mooch managed a stuttered, “Thank you.”

He grasped the cup greedily, warming his hands, and then put it down reverently as he tucked the money into his secret jeans pocket. He resisted the impulse to gulp down the coffee. He’d wake Levi up; they could share the warm drink and perhaps the five pounds might go some way towards buying them something warm to eat. Mooch scowled. He’d make damn sure it wasn’t being given to Levi’s supplier.

Buoyed with a sense of making the night better for them both, he leaned over and shook Levi’s shoulder. Perhaps the warm coffee might put back that sparkle in Levi’s green eyes and bring a faint smile to his haggard face.

“Babe? Wake up. I have coffee, and I’ll go get us something to eat. It’s an early Christmas present.”

Levi slumbered on.

Mooch extricated his leg from under his blanket and kicked him. “Hey, sleepyhead, wake up. I need you to watch the stuff again while I get us food.”

There was still no response. Mooch swore and scrambled over to pull the blanket away. He shook Levi’s shoulder. “For fuck’s sake, wake up.”

It was only then Mooch noticed the open, bulging eyes, the open mouth clotted with vomit and the look of nothingness on Levi’s face. Mooch had seen that look before.

Gut churning, he pulled off his worn woollen glove and touched Levi’s face. It was ice cold, and marbled, his body as still and lifeless as a damaged mannequin tossed out into the rubbish. Mooch gave an inarticulate cry and shook Levi harder, willing him to be okay, to still be alive even though Mooch knew it was hopeless. Stricken, he noticed the needle still stuck in Levi’s arm.

Mooch cried out in grief as he buried himself into the corner while pulling Levi’s skinny, stiff body onto his lap. He stroked Levi’s stringy, black damp hair, ignoring the puddle of cold, stodgy vomit on the blankets, currently being smeared over Mooch’s clothing and hands.

“Wake up, baby,” he crooned to the dead man in his arms. “I need you. Please don’t leave me here. You’re all I’ve got.”

He was still sitting there clutching his friend and lover to his chest when the police arrived two hours later to take him away. One of the policemen was kind and sympathetic and told Mooch they’d take good care of him and Levi, but they needed him to come with them.

From then on Mooch knew life would never be the same again.

Vomit had never been something Maxwell Lewis could stomach. However, in his job as senior flight attendant with Target Air, it was something he had to deal with ad nauseam. Faced with a rabid bull intent on eating his testicles or a whiny, crying child with pseudo-vegetable soup spewing out of his mouth, Max would take the bull anytime—even though he loved his testicles
a lot
and preferably where they were, with a man’s mouth wrapped around them.

“Max, do you think you could get your head out of the clouds long enough to help me here?” The exasperated voice of fellow cabin crew colleague Fiona Randall interrupted his randy dream and Maxwell scowled.