Brian.”
“And?”
“And I love you too, you big eejit. But if you mess me about, I’ll cut your balls off.”
Brian stared at her in wonder and she stared back. For at least a minute he struggled to come up with something to say. In the end he settled for, “cool.”
“Let’s just order a pizza in,” Rachel said. “I’m in the mood for an early night.”
She slid a soft hand down Brian’s spine and cupped one of his buttocks. Brian felt the first twinge of a fresh hard-on.
“Cool,” he said.
Mettle Test
Paul perched himself on the radiator outside O’Rourke’s office. There was nothing as grand as a waiting area in the grotty wee building at the back of the garage. He stood in a widened hallway with just enough room for a small, cluttered desk and a thin receptionist/secretary/PA. Paul had been summoned to the office via a phone call from one of the underlings. Possibly the mechanic he’d almost run down in the TT. He didn’t know him well enough to be sure, but there’d been a hint of aggression in the abrupt message.
Oil pervaded the entire hallway. Oily footprints on the floor; oily handprints on the office door and dotted along the white-painted walls; the smell of oil in the air. Paul’s slightly dodgy stomach flip-flopped and his grim surroundings offered little relief. So, he checked out the pretty receptionist/secretary/PA in an effort to ignore his nerves. Black hair with red streaks. Low-cut white V-neck T-shirt. Decent cleavage. False tan, but closer to brown than orange. She wasn’t bad for a Warrenpoint skank. He cleared his throat and tried to catch her eye.
She smiled at him. “Mr O’Rourke should be ready for you very soon.”
“Thank you, um...?”
“Bernice.”
“Bernice. That’s a nice name.”
“Ah, no. It’s common as muck.”
“Really? I’ve never met one. Apart from you, like.”
“You’re not from around here, though. There were three Bernices in my class at secondary school.”
“I bet you were the best looking one.”
She blushed just a little bit. Hard to detect under her spray-tan, but Paul was looking for it. He was in there.
“You’re a bit of a charmer, are you, Belfast boy?”
“It’s Paul, and no, I don’t think so. I just reckon you’d be hard to beat in the looks department, you know?”
“Well, it just so happens, you’re right. The other two were complete dogs.” She put a carefully manicured hand to her lips and giggled. It was a pretty, feminine flourish.
“So what do you like to do with your time when you’re not working, Bernice?”
“Ach, you know. The usual. I like to get out for a drink and a bit of a dance when I can get a babysitter.”
Paul’s interest in Bernice took a sudden dive, but he didn’t let the Mister Smooth act falter. He didn’t want to piss her off. She probably held a bit of sway with O’Rourke. Especially if she’d ever shagged the big bastard.
“Oh, you’ve got a kid? Boy or girl?”
“Little girl.”
“She’s not called Bernice, is she?”
She smiled at him, delighted he was taking an interest.
“No, she’s called Natasha.”
“Ach, like a wee Russian doll.”
“Right enough, yeah.”
He nodded for a bit and waited for another conversational gambit to occur. She filled the gap.
“Have you no kids, yourself?”
None that I know of, he thought. “No, haven’t met the right girl yet, you know?”
“Oh, waiting for Miss Right? Very romantic.”
“Aye, I’m straight out of a chick flick, so I am.”
A static crackle cut through their flirting. They both jumped a little.
“Send him in.” It was O’Rourke speaking through a cheap intercom, brief and brisk as per.
Bernice rolled her eyes then pushed a button on the little speaker. “Okey dokey, Richard,” she said in a sing-song voice.
Paul gave her a little wave and strode into the office. O’Rourke sat in his high-backed leather office chair; a heap of beef and gristle. He nodded slightly and pointed
“And?”
“And I love you too, you big eejit. But if you mess me about, I’ll cut your balls off.”
Brian stared at her in wonder and she stared back. For at least a minute he struggled to come up with something to say. In the end he settled for, “cool.”
“Let’s just order a pizza in,” Rachel said. “I’m in the mood for an early night.”
She slid a soft hand down Brian’s spine and cupped one of his buttocks. Brian felt the first twinge of a fresh hard-on.
“Cool,” he said.
Mettle Test
Paul perched himself on the radiator outside O’Rourke’s office. There was nothing as grand as a waiting area in the grotty wee building at the back of the garage. He stood in a widened hallway with just enough room for a small, cluttered desk and a thin receptionist/secretary/PA. Paul had been summoned to the office via a phone call from one of the underlings. Possibly the mechanic he’d almost run down in the TT. He didn’t know him well enough to be sure, but there’d been a hint of aggression in the abrupt message.
Oil pervaded the entire hallway. Oily footprints on the floor; oily handprints on the office door and dotted along the white-painted walls; the smell of oil in the air. Paul’s slightly dodgy stomach flip-flopped and his grim surroundings offered little relief. So, he checked out the pretty receptionist/secretary/PA in an effort to ignore his nerves. Black hair with red streaks. Low-cut white V-neck T-shirt. Decent cleavage. False tan, but closer to brown than orange. She wasn’t bad for a Warrenpoint skank. He cleared his throat and tried to catch her eye.
She smiled at him. “Mr O’Rourke should be ready for you very soon.”
“Thank you, um...?”
“Bernice.”
“Bernice. That’s a nice name.”
“Ah, no. It’s common as muck.”
“Really? I’ve never met one. Apart from you, like.”
“You’re not from around here, though. There were three Bernices in my class at secondary school.”
“I bet you were the best looking one.”
She blushed just a little bit. Hard to detect under her spray-tan, but Paul was looking for it. He was in there.
“You’re a bit of a charmer, are you, Belfast boy?”
“It’s Paul, and no, I don’t think so. I just reckon you’d be hard to beat in the looks department, you know?”
“Well, it just so happens, you’re right. The other two were complete dogs.” She put a carefully manicured hand to her lips and giggled. It was a pretty, feminine flourish.
“So what do you like to do with your time when you’re not working, Bernice?”
“Ach, you know. The usual. I like to get out for a drink and a bit of a dance when I can get a babysitter.”
Paul’s interest in Bernice took a sudden dive, but he didn’t let the Mister Smooth act falter. He didn’t want to piss her off. She probably held a bit of sway with O’Rourke. Especially if she’d ever shagged the big bastard.
“Oh, you’ve got a kid? Boy or girl?”
“Little girl.”
“She’s not called Bernice, is she?”
She smiled at him, delighted he was taking an interest.
“No, she’s called Natasha.”
“Ach, like a wee Russian doll.”
“Right enough, yeah.”
He nodded for a bit and waited for another conversational gambit to occur. She filled the gap.
“Have you no kids, yourself?”
None that I know of, he thought. “No, haven’t met the right girl yet, you know?”
“Oh, waiting for Miss Right? Very romantic.”
“Aye, I’m straight out of a chick flick, so I am.”
A static crackle cut through their flirting. They both jumped a little.
“Send him in.” It was O’Rourke speaking through a cheap intercom, brief and brisk as per.
Bernice rolled her eyes then pushed a button on the little speaker. “Okey dokey, Richard,” she said in a sing-song voice.
Paul gave her a little wave and strode into the office. O’Rourke sat in his high-backed leather office chair; a heap of beef and gristle. He nodded slightly and pointed
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