Relief Valve: The Plumber's Mate, Book 2 (22 page)

“Jase, this is Tom. Tom, Jase. My brother.” I stood up to offer him a hand. He shook it, but only for a moment and not before giving it a wary glance, as if he was wondering what I’d been doing with it and if I’d washed it since.

I was tempted to give his hand a little extra squeeze just to mess with his head, but I was worried he might retaliate by messing with mine all too literally.

“You’re the new one, are you?”

I didn’t ask,
new what
? I had a fair idea I wouldn’t like the way he worded the answer. “Tom Paretski. Plumber,” I added out of habit, not because I was really expecting him to put any work my way.

He nodded. “Jason Morrison. Deliveries. Pay’s crap, but the work’s a piece of piss.”

I nodded back. We sat down, Jase pulling up a stool to our table.

Wasn’t this cosy?

Phil stirred himself to ask a question. “You eating?”

“Yeah.” Jase leaned back in his chair, his legs spread wide. He’d worn a hole in the crotch of his jeans and a flash of bright red underwear was showing through. I looked away quick before he could catch me staring at his meat and two veg. “Hot food’s crap here, but the baguettes are all right. What you having?”

“Fish and chips,” I confessed.

Jase laughed. “Don’t worry, it won’t kill you. Probably.”

Funny how your appetite can just disappear. Jase yawned and unfolded his paper to the sports pages. Nice of him to come over so he could ignore us from close quarters. I glanced at Phil, but he was staring stonily into the middle distance. Not a lot of brotherly love going flying around right now, I guessed.

I stifled a sigh. “Bloody outrageous what they paid for Rooney, innit?” I piped up, referring to one of the articles on the
Mail’
s back page.

Jase lowered the paper. “You what? All right, maybe his form’s been off this season, but it ain’t his fault. Should shoot the bloody manager, if you ask me. See, that last match against Chelsea, he switched from a 4-3-3 to a bloody 4-2-3-1, the wanker…” And he was off. We spent the rest of our lunchtime discussing the finer points of the Premiership, Jase and I did, while Phil munched on his fish and chips and threw in the occasional grunt.

The fish and chips was fine, by the way. Jase didn’t know what he was talking about. Fish or football.

At the end of the meal Jase downed the rest of his pint, scratched his balls and stood up. “He’s all right, this one,” he said over my head to Phil. “You should’ve brung him round for Christmas. Better than that posh tosser.” He slouched away, secure in his place in the world.

“You all right?” I asked when Jase had finally buggered off. “That was out of order, what he said about your Mark.”

Phil shrugged, but the tense lines were easing from around his eyes. “That’s family for you. Didn’t know he came in this pub. Might have known you’d get along okay with him,” he added, looking away.

It didn’t sound like a compliment. “Got to be able to get along with anyone, my line of work. He’s a bit…” Exactly like I remembered Phil being, back when we’d been at school together. Except somehow Phil had got out of the council estate, got an education and upgraded his accent, and developed a very expensive taste in sweaters. Oh, and ditched the Neanderthal attitudes.

“Yeah, he is,” Phil agreed, despite the fact I hadn’t finished the sentence. “You ready?”

“Depends what for.” I flashed him a smile.

Phil’s gaze turned dark. “That.”

“Right.” I swallowed. “Mine?”

He nodded.

We barely made it inside my front door before he was on me, shoving up my shirt and tearing at my jeans. “Need to fuck you,” he grunted, one hand pinching a nipple and the other groping my arse while his rock-hard dick tried to bore a hole in my stomach.

“God, yeah.” I’d have been happy with anything, so long as he did it with this intensity of focus. He kissed me, openmouthed, all teeth and tongue.

“Upstairs. Stuff,” I managed. Phil gave my arse a vicious squeeze—not that I was complaining—and let me drag him up to the bedroom. Merlin passed us on the way, took one look and then bombed down the stairs like someone had lit a firework under his bum.

My jeans were hanging at half-mast, and I nearly tripped over the bloody things before we got to the bedroom and I could finally kick them, and my underwear, all the way off. I tried to get my shirt off too but was still fumbling with buttons when Phil tackled me to the bed. “Christ, you want to warn a bloke?” I gasped when I’d got my breath back.

“Shut up,” he growled and kissed me again, his stubble rasping against my skin, making it tingle. He tasted of salt and beer and the lemon he’d squeezed on his fish. I pulled his hips down against me, and he groaned into my mouth, then pushed up away from me on shaking arms.

His face… God, his face. His eyes looked more black than blue, and he had the sort of expression you see on blokes just before they swing for you, although in Phil’s case I was pretty certain he had sex on his mind, not violence.

Fuck, that was a turn-on. “Get your clothes off,” I said, my voice sounding like I’d been gargling with gravel.

He stared at me for a moment, like it was taking a while to work out what the words meant, then he pulled his posh sweater and shirt over his head together and flung them on the floor. I reached out to help him with his trousers, but he batted my hand away and ripped them off himself.

Okay, now I was feeling overdressed. I opened up the rest of the buttons on my shirt and struggled up onto my elbows to shrug it off, but he pushed me back down to the bed with a shove from one of his great big mitts in the middle of my chest.

“Oi, I’m trying to get naked here.”

“Leave it on. I like it.”

He did? I’d gone back to the plaid this morning, having run out of other options. Maybe Phil had a pocket lumberjack fetish. “Suit yourself. So are you going to fuck me, or wait until I die of old age?”

“Wanker. Get your legs up.”

I pulled them up obligingly, my hands behind my knees. Phil stared down at me so long I started to get self-conscious. “What? Going to tell me I need to get my arse bleached or something?”

“You’re fucking gorgeous, and you know it.” Strong fingers wrapped around my dick and pumped a few times, sending electric currents through my balls and making my eyes roll back in my head.

Then he stopped, the bastard. I opened my eyes again, but seeing he was rolling a condom on his prick, I decided not to complain after all. Clearly there was nothing wrong with his priorities. He’d got the lube out too while I wasn’t looking, and he put that to good use, then shoved two slick fingers up my bum.

“Impatient bastard,” I gasped, squirming at the rapid stretch. I could take it, though.

“Too fucking right.” He crooked his fingers and smirked at the involuntary noise I made. “Going to fuck you so fucking hard.”

Any more of this and he was going to be beating his chest and making ape noises. My dick twitched at the thought. “I know your sort,” I panted as he pumped his fingers in and out of me. “All mouth and no bloody trousers.”

“I’ll show you fucking trousers.” He pulled out his fingers with a pop, lined up his dick and plunged it inside me.

Jesus. Christ, I felt that. I was glad he stilled for a bit once he was balls-deep in me. What with the rapid prep and all, he felt fucking massive inside me. For a couple of minutes, there was nothing but our breathing, harsh and ragged, then he drew in a deep breath and looked me in the eye. “Shit. You okay?”

“I’m not made of bloody china. Fuck me already.”

“Fucking tosser.” He shifted up so he was firmly on his knees, then he grabbed hold of my hips with both hands. “You asked for it,” he warned, before pulling out and slamming straight back in, his balls slapping against my arse and his dick hitting my gland like a ten-ton truck.

“
Jesus
.” I couldn’t find the breath to tell him to do that again, but that was all right because he did it anyway, over and over. I grabbed on to the headboard to stop my head going right through it as jolts of sensation shot up my spine.

When he let go of my arse and wrapped a hand around my dick, I nearly lost it there and then. Never thought I’d be so grateful for thoughts of Morgan Everton dropping into my head while I was in the middle of a shag, but I was desperate to hold off a bit longer. Phil had to be close now, the way he was going, sweat dripping off his forehead and splashing on my belly to mingle with the precome I’d left there myself.

“Gonna come,” Phil grunted, sending a shiver right through me. I grabbed hold of the hand he had on my dick and tugged it along faster, harder. God, I loved this. Loved him.

Then he got the angle just fucking perfect, and with his last, desperate thrust, I was over the edge and falling.

I knew Phil would catch me.

We lay in bed for a long time afterwards, not talking, just holding each other. It got a bit hot, to be honest, under the duvet with fifteen stone of muscle wrapped around me like an overprotective teddy bear. Not that I was in any hurry to cool down.

“Know what I like about you?” Phil rumbled in my ear.

“Based on recent experience, I’d say my arse comes pretty high on the list.”

He chuckled. “You don’t judge. And you get on with people. Ever meet anyone you couldn’t charm?”

“Plenty. I just murder them and hide the bodies.”

“Yeah, you’d know all the good hiding places, wouldn’t you? What did you think of Jase?
Really
think.”

“I think I like his brother better.”

“Don’t dodge.”

“Well… Are you going to get offended on his behalf?”

“Just answer the question. No.”

“I think he’s just pretty happy thinking like he’s always thought, doing what he’s always done, and he doesn’t see the point of making any effort to change or see anyone else’s point of view.” I shrugged, which isn’t easy when you’re on your back in bed with the world’s biggest limpet. “Some people are just like that. Doesn’t make him a bad person.”

“Yeah, it does.”

“Well, maybe, but we’re not talking on the scale of mass murderers or traffic wardens.”

Phil breathed a laugh into my neck. “They’re all like that. Mum too. Mark hated them. They weren’t too keen on him, either.”

It was getting a bit too hot and sweaty to stay under the covers, so I shouldered out of Phil’s arms. “Going to take a quick shower.”

When I came out of the bathroom, Phil was already dressed. “I’m going to head off. Need to get some work done, seeing as this afternoon was a write-off.” He paused. “You all right?”

“Fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”

He looked like he was about to say something, but then he just nodded and buggered off.

I mooched downstairs and threw myself onto the sofa. Arthur hissed at me as his cushion bounced in sympathy.

So the Mysterious Mark had been a posh tosser. And hadn’t got on with Phil’s family.

I guessed I really was the bit of rough.

Chapter Sixteen

I rang Dave Southgate that evening, after I’d rustled up a quick plate of pasta and fought off the cats when they tried to nick the tuna I was having with it. “Fancy a pint?”

“What, so you can pump me for information on your sister’s case?”

There was an obvious answer to that one, but if I tried it on Dave, he’d run a mile. And fair dues, the thought of any innuendo involving Dave and “pumping” was putting me right off my beer anyhow. “Can’t I just want a drink with a mate? So are you coming, then? Or has the missus got you on a tight rein these days?” All right, that was a dirty dig. Got results, though.

“Fine. I’ll see you at the White Hart at eight. Or thereabouts.”

I got there early, but Dave was there before me, staring moodily at the football on the telly and picking at a bowl of chips. After I’d got myself a pint and one for him, I slid onto the bench beside him and nabbed a chip.

“Bugger off and get your own, Paretski.”

“Nah, I already ate.” I swiped another, then felt guilty when he pushed the whole bowl in my direction. “You all right?”

“Yeah, fine.” Dave gave a heavy sigh. “I’m not supposed to be eating this stuff anyway. Or drinking, for that matter.”

“You what?” My chest prickled uneasily. “You had a health scare?”

“Nah, it’s the wife. Says I’ve got overweight sperm or something. Little bastards are too fat to swim. That’s her theory, anyway.”

“Still no luck with getting her up the duff?”

“No, and I’ll tell you something straight, you might think it’s a bloody dream come true to have her wanting sex all the time, but it takes all the fun out of it. And that’s even before she starts criticising the little wrigglers.”

“Tell her to stand on her head after sex and let gravity do the work for them.”

“Not the point, is it? She’s convinced if I don’t lose a bit of weight before we conceive, our kid’s going to be the sad fat bastard who never gets picked for games.” Dave stared gloomily at his pint. I wondered if he’d been a sad fat bastard when he was at school. He was definitely a bit on the podgy and pessimistic side these days.