The Chase: Brit Boys: On Boys

THE CHASE

BRIT BOYS: ON BOYS

BY LILY HARLEM

The Chase: text copyright © Lily Harlem 2016

All Rights Reserved

With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from Lily Harlem.

Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the author’s written permission.

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

Cover Art by Lola Divine Designs

The Chase

Steve's killing time working in a comedy club. Why not? It makes him laugh and both the clientele and the comedians are not just fit but also great company.

Then one stand-up joker decides to create a wild goose chase for Steve and his ex Robert. Cavorting around Cardiff on a frosty night, however, does more than just show them the way to a threesome, it also reveals the reasons why they should give each other one more shot.

Please note The Chase was previously published in the Brit Boys: On Boys boxed set.

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

About the Author

Brit Boys

Steve tilted a pint glass under the Stella Artois tap and looked at the stage. It took twenty seconds to pour and for that time he could enjoy the show.

The small comedy club in Cardiff was buzzing and the lights dim except for where Carrick stood holding his microphone. The scent of booze, aftershave and perfume hung heavy in the air and the place was warm—no, make that hot.

Carrick was doing his thing brilliantly, which was, of course, making people laugh. It was what he was paid to do, and damn the bloke was talented. One of the best acts they had at Jugglers and always a sell out.

Carrick made Steve chuckle too when he performed his monthly stand-up slot. But there was also something about him that sent a tingle down Steve’s spine whenever he looked at him. He was an attractive guy in a bit-rough-around-the-edges kind of a way, and his broad Northern accent gave prominence to the gravelly quality of his voice.

If the comedian stopped for a drink, after his show and when the place was clearing, Steve knew he would sport a semi as they chatted over a nightcap—on the house, naturally. Carrick was so quick and he had a fast smile and an even faster wit. He poked fun and saw humour in everything and Steve had discovered he found that wonderful and sexy combined with a very fuckable body and a handsomely rugged face.

“Two eggs boiling in a pan,” Carrick said, his voice booming through the microphone. “One says, I’ve got a huge crack. The other replies, stop teasing me, I’m not fucking hard yet.”

Laughter erupted in the audience. Steve smiled. He’d heard that one before.

“A psychiatrist was conducting a group therapy session with three young mothers and their small children,” Carrick said, walking to the left of the stage and hooking his thumb in the pocket of his tight, dark jeans. “You all have obsessions, the psychiatrist observed. To the first mother, he said, ‘You are obsessed with eating. You’ve even named your daughter Candy.’” He paused, looked around the audience and gave a sexy smile. “The psychiatrist turned to the second mother. ‘Your obsession is money. Again, it manifests itself in your child’s name, Penny.’ At this point, the third mother got up, took her little boy by the hand and whispered, ‘Come on, Dick, let’s go.’”

The audience roared.

“Haha, very good,” Robert said, sniggering and taking the pint Steve placed on the bar.

“Hey, you have to pay for that,” Steve said, tapping the beer mat with his index finger.

“Yeah, yeah, here you go.”

“You’ll get me fired,” Steve huffed, reaching for another pint glass.

“Nah, Tammy fancies the arse off you, she’d never get rid of her best puff.”

Steve tutted and took the fiver Robert passed him. “Maybe it’s because I’m the only one who’ll work on a moment’s notice and can be trusted to lock up.”

“You always were a workaholic.” Robert frowned. “You seem tired.”

“I’m fine.” Steve turned to the next customer. “Don’t fuss.”

Robert had always worried about him and still did, which was sweet even though they weren’t a couple anymore. They’d had a good innings, though, and Robert had discovered a side to Steve that he hadn’t even known existed. A quiet, submissive side that loved to be taken in hand, put under control, take whatever was coming and be cared for and looked after.

Steve started to pour the next drink and glanced once more at Carrick.

“Sex is like math,” he said. “Add the bed. Subtract the clothes. Divide the legs and pray you don’t multiply.”

Applause travelled round the room.

Steve grinned. He didn’t think multiplying would be a problem for Carrick—he was as bent as they came. Not that he advertised it, or anyone without a strong gaydar would guess. He was beefy, oozed testosterone, he would give a lady a wink, a kiss on the cheek, flirt with everyone, whatever gender. He had the gift of the gab that was for sure. No wonder his career was taking off. There were even rumours he’d been asked to guest spot on
Mock the Week
.

“I hope he sticks around,” Robert said, leaning a little over the bar so only Steve could hear him.

“What do you mean?” Steve asked.

“If he hits the big time. I hope he still comes to Cardiff.”

“Yeah, I was just thinking that.” He studied Robert, who was rubbing his chin and staring once more at Carrick. “You fancy the arse off him, don’t you, Robert?”

Robert turned. “No more than you do.” He grinned and the smile went right up to his eyes. They sparkled the way they always did when it was late at night, he’d had a drink and was thinking about sex.

Steve shrugged and clicked off the beer tap. “I can’t deny that.” At one time he’d have felt consumed with jealousy if Robert had admitted to fancying someone else. And he never would have confessed to Robert that he wanted into another man’s trousers. But now, since they’d split, their friendship had grown. It felt like their baggage had been taken out, leaving room for their emotions to mature and the space for honesty. Their friendship had blossomed; if he were honest, he felt closer than ever to Robert.

“What can I get you?” Steve asked a woman with long blonde hair and bright red lips.

“Two chardonnays.”

He turned to the fridge. He missed being with Robert, his Master, late at night, when it was cold and dark, when his bed felt too big. Perhaps they should try to rekindle their romance, re-stoke their lust, but this time based on friendship rather than the desperate need to rip each other’s clothes off. Neither of them had found anyone else in the year since their breakup to fill the gap.

Maybe his gap was a Robert-shaped gap?

Steve quickly poured the wine and took the money from the lady.

Or could it be a Carrick-shaped space? Would he fit into the hole in his life?

As if? Men like Carrick could have anyone they wanted. He no doubt had a bloke in every town as he did his constant tour of the UK spreading laughs and jokes.

The hole in his life was much more likely to be Robert-shaped.

“Well, that’s it for tonight, folks,” Carrick shouted and put his hand in the air, palm facing the audience. “I’m Carrick Rawlin, you’ve been great. Good night!”

He stepped backwards to the red velvet curtain, which slid open just enough to let him step through.

The cheering and clapping caused Steve’s ears to ring and he paused in serving. “Whoo!” he shouted, banging his hands together.

Robert put his fingers in his mouth and added a piercing whistle to the noise.

Steve watched Robert start clapping and smiled. He loved seeing Robert happy and enjoying himself, and was glad that he propped up the bar so often at Jugglers. It made work feel a lot less like work if he was at his side.

The audience began to shuffle and stand. Steve hoped the club would clear quickly now the entertainment was over. That way Carrick might come and sit at the bar with him and Robert and wet his whistle—that was the expression he’d used last time. It would be good to have some alone time with the sexy comedian.

Steve glanced up at the glass shelf that held the spirits. Yes, they had Jack Daniels with honey. That was good. It was Carrick’s favourite.

*****

Steve’s wish was granted and within half an hour Jugglers was almost empty. The dark wooden chairs sat at odd angles to the round tables, which were topped with empty glasses and bowls holding the remnants of bar snacks. The stage was in darkness, the floor in need of a sweep, and the quiet after the boisterous noise was a welcome relief.

He switched the dishwasher on and finally poured himself a half pint of Strongbow.

“So do you think he’ll join us for a drink?” Robert asked, stacking three quid on a drip tray.

“He might.”

“Trouble is,” Robert said, “if we both fancy him, who’s going to have him?”

Steve paused. “I don’t know.” He took a sip of cider. “Maybe it will have to be his choice.”

“Or maybe we could share him?”

“What?” Steve held his drink still, halfway between his mouth and the bar. He couldn’t deny the thought was very appealing and had crossed his mind too, but he hadn’t expected Robert to just come out with it like that.

Robert tugged on his bottom lip with his teeth as if holding in a smile. “You heard. Perhaps he’ll be up for a threesome.”

“I think you’re getting ahead of yourself. We don’t even know if he’s coming for a drink, if he fancies us, or, more to the point, if he’s taken. And even if all of that went in our favour, he might not be up for a threesome.”

“But we do know he’s as bent as a tent peg, and let’s face it, must be a shitty life on the road all the time. I bet he takes it where he can get it and from whoever is willing.”

“Just because that’s what you’d do in the same position.” Steve tutted and placed his cider down. Robert always had been sex mad—not that he’d ever complained about that fact, he was bloody good at it.

“Don’t act the delicate fairy with me, Steve. I know damn well how dirty you can get and that’s every bit as filthy as me.”

Steve reached for the pound coins on the bar. “I take offence to that.”

“No you don’t.” Robert leant forward and wrapped his hand around Steve’s slight wrist.

“Hey,” Steve said as an excited sensation fizzed over his nerves and sped up his heart rate. He used to love it when Robert gripped his wrists like that, preferably when they were naked and he was getting shoved up against a wall and a dick rammed into his arse. “What?”

“Do you remember?” Robert asked in a low voice.

Steve swallowed. He didn’t need to ask what Robert was talking about, because yes, he remembered, he remembered everything, it was scorched into his mind forever. The way Steve used to pin him down, tie him up, fuck him till he could take no more. The dirty, filthy, amazing things he used to say to him, do to him. That one time when he’d gone to a sex shop and bought toys for them to play with—naughty, deviant toys that had batteries and did things to his insides that took his breath away.

“I know you do,” Robert said, releasing Steve’s wrist. “You remember every sordid, delicious fucking detail, don’t you?”

Steve picked up a towel and began to rub the rim of a wine glass. “Only the way you do.”

“Do you wank off to the memories?” Robert asked, tipping his head and raising his eyebrows.

“You can’t ask me stuff like that. Not anymore. We’re over, or had you forgotten?”

He shook his head and his mouth pulled downwards a fraction. “No, I hadn’t forgotten. You gonna top up my pint or what? I’ve paid for it.”

“Oh, yeah, sorry.” Steve put Robert’s glass under the beer tap and flicked it on.

“I do,” Robert said.

“You do what?” Steve asked.

“Wank off to the memory of you bent over in front of me. Your skin pale, delicate, your arse with my handprints on, and your hole, trembling, open a little, where I’ve prepped you. You’re breathing fast, your fists clenched, just waiting for me to sink deep.”

Steve pulled in a deep breath. His cock reacted to Robert’s words and pushed against his jeans. “Shh…” He glanced around.

“Or else what?”

“Just.”

“Or else I’ll make you hard?” Robert asked.

“Because he’s coming, look.” Steve nodded at the door to the left of the stage.

Carrick was striding towards them. He still wore the jeans and black Nirvana T-shirt he’d worn on stage. Fuck, he was easy on the eye. Just enough stubble, hair short and neat, and lips that were soft and kissable and curved in a permanent grin.

“Hey,” Robert said, turning on his bar stool.

Carrick nodded at him. “Damn, I need a drink, Steve. Pour me my usual.”

A shiver of pride went through Steve. Carrick had remembered his name and was comfortable enough to just ask for his JD and honey as ‘his usual’. Had he thought of Steve since their last late-night chat? Was there a chance of some sexy time with him?

“Coming right up,” Steve said, wiping out one of the best tumblers then adding ice.

“Need to wet my whistle after all of that,” Carrick said, taking a seat next to Robert. “Gets a bit dry.”

“Great stuff, though,” Robert said, pressing his lips together and nodding. “Got some new material in there.”

“Well, not much, been too busy working on other stuff, but you know, I reckon it’s only the bar staff who have to listen to the same jokes twice.”

“I don’t mind,” Steve said, sloshing a generous measure of JD into Carrick’s glass. “And we don’t have many regulars; mostly people only come here a couple of times a year.”

“Hey, what the fuck am I, invisible?” Robert said, jabbing his chest with his thumb. “I’m here nearly every bloody night.”

“Nah, I wouldn’t say you’re invisible,” Carrick said. His gaze dropped over Robert’s wide shoulders and broad chest that was highlighted by the tight black sweater he wore. “Far from it.”

“Well, we need someone to prop up the bar,” Steve said.

“And it might as well be eye candy, eh?” Carrick said then laughed.