Friday, 28 November 2014

My Black Friday: Frankie & Al

Four of my favourite boys are on sale! Time for Frankie & Al and Ed & Marchant to get a little loving from me.

Frankie meets the man of his dreams. The first time he throws up, the second time he gets knocked over by a car. Will the third time be the charm? Will Frankie ever learn his name?



Dumped by his boyfriend, Frankie Mason goes out with the girls, gets totally trashed, and ends his night by falling in front of a taxi. He’s rescued by a man with beautiful green eyes who takes care of him until he’s put into an ambulance. Frankie curses himself as he realizes he doesn’t have the man’s phone number. Still in pain a few days later, he is dragged out to a club only to be saved by Green Eyes once more. This time, he isn’t letting the man go. 
Unfortunately Frankie has to attend a team-building exercise, nicknamed Womb Weekend, organized by his company. Al is working so he doesn't mind, until he discovers who the team leader is. Al has a lot of explaining to do!


Frankie's nasty boss, Ed, has made it his life's mission to be a dick, especially to Frankie. But then Ed meets Marchant, a Dom who sees Ed for what he really is, and for the first time in his life Ed can't hide behind a sour tongue.



Blurb
Ed Winters despises his job and hates everyone he works with—especially out and proud, happily in love Frankie Mason. He spends his days wishing he could dance, rather than work. 

Late to go shopping one day, Ed ends up soaked in Marchant Belarus’s spilled Coke. Ed’s humiliation increases when Marchant, the owner of a BDSM club, realizes Ed is a sub, albeit a very closeted one. Marchant’s attempts to draw Ed out of his shell release years of pent-up anger and hurt over the abuse Ed’s mother and grandmother heaped on him. 

Marchant is patient, but nothing he does seems to help until he discovers Ed’s secret love of dancing—a forbidden passion that might be the key to unlocking the confident, secure man Ed could be.

Excerpt:

FROM THE isolation of his cubicle, Ed Winters watched over the top of his rimless glasses as two members of his staff twirled around the office, and his lip curled. “One day soon, Mr. Mason, you will get what you deserve.”

It was wishful thinking on Ed’s part. Frankie Mason was Teflon-coated. He could waltz in late, flirt with all the women, and screw up, but nothing touched him, and everyone worshipped the ground he walked on. Even the bitches in management thought Mason had golden balls. The bollocking Ed had received for snitching on Frankie still rankled bitterly.

Ed hated his job… and his staff, including Frankie Mason. Especially Frankie Mason.

Of course the feeling was returned in spades. Ed knew exactly what his staff at the insurance company thought of him. He had once heard Frankie describe him as a 1950s Tory poster boy who disliked “women, black people, anyone from the Indian subcontinent, curry, the French, the Irish, dogs—” and after that damning (and stunningly accurate) indictment, Frankie had minced across the room with a limp wrist, enunciating “—hom-o-sex-uals.”

Frankie was a screaming queer (his words) and didn’t give a flying fart what Ed Winters thought about him (also his words).

Ed despised him.

It’s not as if anything Frankie said was incorrect. Ed hated all those things and more. If anyone had asked him what he did like… well, no one asked him. No one talked to him at work unless they had to, which was exactly the way he preferred it, and he didn’t have any friends or family.

In Ed’s pristine ivory home, nothing and no one disturbed his peace. He could shut the door behind him, place his shoes neatly in the shoe rack, hang up his jacket, and forget about the idiots and lowlifes that infested his existence.

No one knocked at Ed’s door or called his phone. His flat was his castle, and there he found peace. His sanctuary soothed his soul. It kept him going through the eight-and-a-half hours of the miserable drudgery of work.

If he lived close enough, he would escape back home at lunchtime, but it was just too far away to make it feasible. Instead Ed ate his spinach salad and sparkling water at his desk every day, looking out the window to the park beyond and wishing he was there. Not in the park. The park was fine, but the other occupants—the screaming kids, filthy dogs leaving their shit over the paths, and shrill mothers—were the bane of his existence. But the park was on his route. A place of joy at five thirty in the evening and doom and despair at eight thirty in the morning as he approached the office.

Ed looked down at the files on his desk, and his lip curled. “How on earth did I end up here? I had plans.”

He’d planned to set the world on fire with his dancing. Instead he’d ended up in a dead-end job that drained his soul. Not just his job. His life. Ed refused to admit, even to himself, the soul-sucking loneliness of his existence.

Ed looked over at Frankie now engaging in an obscene tango with that slut, Charlotte, also a member of his team.

“You think you can dance?” he muttered. “I can dance. I could make you cry with my paso doble.”

But the world was never going to weep tears over his paso doble, and Ed was going to shuffle papers, hating his life until he died, bitter and alone.



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