Short Stack Read online

  Short Stack

  Lily Morton

  Synopsis

  What happens after the happy ending?

  Drawn together for the first time, this is a collection of Lily’s short stories about the much-loved men from her Mixed Messages and Finding Home series. Follow them through awkward marriage proposals, birthdays, a fraught babysitting job, and a very drunken Eurovision Song Contest party.

  It includes stories previously written for her website and readers’ group, along with deleted scenes and four brand new and exclusive short stories - Bad Valentine, Marrying Jude, Babysitting Billy, and House Hunting.

  Copyright © 2020 by Lily Morton

  Book cover design by Natasha Snow Designs

  www.natashasnowdesigns.com

  Formatting by Leslie Copeland, editing by Courtney Bassett www.lescourtauthorservices.com

  Proofread by Edie Danford

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously.

  References to real people, events, organizations, establishments or locations are intended to provide a sense of authenticity and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Please purchase only authorized editions

  The author acknowledges the copyrighted or trademarked status and trademark owners of the following products mentioned in this work of fiction: Converse, Lemsip, Hot Wheels, WH Smith, Tupperware, Advocaat, Calvin Klein, Sky, Hugo Boss, Pac-Man. Ray Bans, Sainsburys, Paul Smith, The Sun, Tiffanys, Armani. Harvey Nichols, Burberry, Ralph Lauren, Cartier, RAC, Breitling, Butlins, Waitrose, Rolex, Waterstones, PornHub, Land Rover

  All songs, song titles and lyrics mentioned in the novel are the property of the respective songwriters and copyright holders.

  Warning

  This book contains material that is intended for a mature, adult audience. It contains graphic language, explicit sexual content and adult situations.

  Contents

  Synopsis

  Author Note

  Gabe and Dylan

  Goodbye Fletcher

  Bad Valentine

  Jude’s Intervention

  Scrambled Eggs and Lemsip

  The Valentine Do-Over

  Babysitting Billy

  Gabe Does Eurovision

  Jude and Asa

  Green-Eyed Monsters

  Jude’s Christmas

  Marrying Jude

  Henry and Ivo

  A Change is as Good as a Rest

  The Lost Weekend

  Oz and Silas

  Ten Minutes’ Peace

  Merry Ozzy Christmas

  Milo and Niall

  The Big Four-Oh!

  Gideon and Eli

  Onboard Antics

  Messages

  When Gideon Met Asa

  House Hunting

  First Night Fathers

  Thank You

  Contact Lily

  Also by Lily Morton

  Author Note

  These short stories catch up with the men of the Mixed Messages and Finding Home series after their happy ending. Therefore, there are a lot of spoilers. Please don’t read the shorts until you’ve read the original books.

  For the members of Lily’s Snark Squad.

  This is for all the short stories that you requested and how wonderful a place you make my readers’ group.

  “I think we ought to live happily ever after.”

  Diana Wynne Jones

  Gabe and Dylan

  Goodbye Fletcher

  This short story is set after the events in Verbier.

  Gabe

  I sit cradling a glass of whisky and staring at the six-foot painting of tropical flowers on my wall. It’s stunning, and the artist is incredibly talented, but that still doesn’t explain why Dylan had been so fascinated with it when he was here. He’d stared at it constantly with an amused look on his face. It also doesn’t explain why I’m examining it so intently now when it’s been on my wall for a couple of years.

  I sigh and take a slug of my drink. Actually, the explanation is obvious. Dylan’s always on my fucking mind and this picture has some sort of tenuous connection with him. I rub my fingers into my eyes and enjoy the burn. That tenuous connection may be all I have left with him after Verbier.

  I still can’t believe what I’ve done. After maintaining my cool and calm demeanour with him for two whole years, all it took was two hours in a fucking ski bar to ruin that track record. Even worse, my much-vaunted self-control around him has now vanished altogether. It had better come back quickly, because, since our return, it’s been a struggle to even be in the same room with him without jumping on him.

  To avoid throwing him down on the sofa in my office and ruining everything, I’d forced myself to offer my help on a case in another department. The head of the project had been astounded by my turning up, but had then just shrugged and bemusedly accepted my assistance. I shake my head at the thought of the last few torturous days. I’ve sat in numerous tedious meetings, attended by windbags who wouldn’t or couldn’t stop fucking talking, and my only entertainment came from picturing Dylan’s face if he’d been there taking notes. That barely concealed humour is actually one of the highlights of my working day, and so many times I’ve said things just to see that pen hesitate on the paper, and his shrewd eyes look at me with their ever-present glint of amusement.

  I reach out for the bottle of whisky quickly, because now I’m thinking about his eyes.

  Fuck me. Two years of ignoring his snark and sass. Two long years of curling my fingers into fists to avoid touching him when he leant close. Two long years of inhaling the citrus smell of his Tom Ford aftershave, and then having to pretend to have a cold when he’d given me that what the fuck look he really should patent. All that control I’d applauded myself on is now gone, obliterated with just one glance into his eyes in that bar. I’d sat there feeling his warmth against me and, seeing the heat in his eyes, and I’d snapped and reached for him.

  I take a slug of my newly replenished whisky and groan because it won’t help. Nothing stops me from remembering how his lips felt soft against mine, his breath scented by the sweet Glühwein. I can’t forget the feel of his broad shoulders and narrow waist under my hands. Not to mention the thrust of his cock in my hand. I groan and push my palm into my now achingly hard cock.

  I’m drawn away from my thoughts by the sound of a key in my front door. My eyes narrow. Fucking Fletcher. The door opens, and I can hear a hushed conversation and a snort of laughter. I groan because I know what’s going to happen, and I really don’t want it. He’s brought another man round. I look at my watch. He’ll have been at a club, and this is his conquest, presented to me the way a cat will drag a mouse back to its master to play with.

  I shake my head because here is yet another indication of the way Dylan is fucking up my entire life. Previously, I’d have been eager to play with Fletcher and a third. I’d have relished the chance to forget myself in the tight clench of a man’s hole, and the mess of legs and arms and sweat and come. Since Verbier, however, carousing with Fletcher hasn’t interested me at all.

  Fletcher is more vacuous than ever, and, sadly, the only thing I really want tonight is Dylan beside me, sassing and taking the piss. I sigh. I’m getting old, that’s what’s wrong with me.

  Regardless of any of that bullshit, it’s time for Fletcher to go. He’s shallow and mean. I’d known it the night we met, but it didn’t matter to me because I never allo
w people to get inside my head and heart. As long as we were fucking, I never cared what he did. I’ve long been aware of his bitchiness towards Dylan, but Dylan’s always been more than capable of sticking up for himself.

  However, Fletcher’s attitude bothered me for the first time in Verbier. It had been obvious that Dylan was uncomfortable with the crowd at the chateau, and he’d seemed uncharacteristically vulnerable. It had stirred an awful feeling of protectiveness in me and I stepped in more times than Dylan knew, to stop the group of them falling on him like a pack of wolves. It caused a lot of arguments with Fletcher, but I couldn’t stop myself.

  I look up at the noise as the two men fall into the lounge, and I sit back, raising an eyebrow. “Fletcher, how nice of you to drop by.” I pause. “And look at you being so impulsive, because I don’t actually remember inviting you.”

  He smirks at me. “I have a key, Gabe.”

  “Which I also don’t remember ever giving you. What a ridiculous scatterbrain I am.”

  He huffs and slings his arm around the man he’s with. The stranger is slender with golden-brown hair, green eyes, and full lips with a lip ring. He works the ring with his tongue, as he stares around the room with a hint of attitude. I wait for the twitch in my cock, because Fletcher knows my type. Unfortunately, it doesn’t come, because the prototype of the men I fuck is far away from here, and currently ignoring me because I acted like a wanker in Verbier.

  I shake my head at Fletcher. “Not tonight.”

  He stares at me, his eyes narrowed in displeasure and calculation. “We haven’t had sex for fucking ages, Gabe. Have you got a problem getting it up now? Because I’ve got some pills somewhere to help with that.”

  The other man laughs, and I bare my teeth in a cold smile. “Not as far as I know.” I settle back insolently on the sofa, my arms across the back and my expression challenging. “Have you got any pills to help with your congenital vacuousness?”

  The other man snorts, seemingly unable to decide which side he favours, and anger crosses Fletcher’s face. “Well, it seems we’re not welcome here tonight, Michael.”

  “My name’s Liam,” the man says huffily, but Fletcher ignores him, instead looking at me challengingly.

  “Whatever gave you the clue?” I ask, taking a sip of my drink. “Is it the fact that I never issued you an invitation?”

  He huffs petulantly. “If I waited for that, I’d never be here.”

  “Exactly,” I drawl. His eyes narrow before something flares in them, that gift of his for being completely self-obsessed but still able to home in on another’s weakness. He wanders over and settles down on the sofa near me. I notice he’s not sitting too close, which I presume is in case I decide to throttle him in the next five minutes.

  “Gabe,” he says sweetly. “We spoke about this.”

  I sigh loudly. “Spoke about what? The only conversation I’ve had with you lately was about why planes don’t just fall out of the sky.” I shoot him a poisonously sweet glance. “Oh, and about where you’d put your haemorrhoid cream.”

  “Mate,” Liam says pityingly, and Fletcher shakes his head.

  “I have not got fucking haemorrhoids. Don’t listen to him, Michael.” When Liam shakes his head and wanders off, Fletcher raises his voice. “Gabe’s just bad-tempered because he’s in love with a little bitch, and he’s too chickenshit to do anything about it.”

  I manage to hide my wince with long practice, as Fletcher excels in the art of digs that fucking hurt. “I am not in love with anyone,” I say coldly. “And you really should read more, Fletcher. It would improve your vocabulary.” I look him up and down. “Now that your looks are fading.”

  “You fucking bitch,” he hisses, and I smirk as he jumps up from the sofa and puts his hands on his hips. He looks like an exceedingly cross Toby Jug. “Well, I’m not stopping here to be insulted like this.”

  “I’m sure there are multiple places you can go to for that,” I say smoothly.

  “I’m feeling quite uncomfortable now,” Liam says with a sigh, his hip cocked out and all attitude.

  I try to repress a smirk. In a funny way, he reminds me of Dylan. Nobody winds Fletcher up quite as much, and it’s a joy to watch. I still treasure the memory of the time that Dylan told him that talking about politics makes you lose weight. My smile dies suddenly, and my stomach gets tight because I don’t want to think about him.

  I focus back on Fletcher. “Where aren’t you stopping? My house? No, you’re certainly not. Here’s a novel idea – why don’t you take Liam back to your house?” I pause. “And why don’t you leave your key to my house on the table?”

  He stills. “Does that mean what I think it means?”

  “Well, I’m hoping you think it means we’re finished and I won’t have to see you again.”

  “Still uncomfortable,” Liam chimes in.

  Fletcher sends him a fulminating glare before he turns back to me. “Fuck you!” he hisses. “Thank fucking God that I’ll be done with you, you boring wanker. When I first met you, you were interesting and a bit dangerous, and now look at you.”

  “When you first met me, I hadn’t had a year under my belt of listening to you talk about Hollyoaks like it’s the fucking Bible.”

  “Oh, and you’re so much better than me. You, the lonely, middle-aged fuck-up, who’s in love with his secretary and hasn’t got the fucking balls to do anything about it. I hope you try, and I hope Dylan fucking pisses on you. I hope you die miserable and fucking lonely.”

  “If it means that I won’t have to listen to you again, I’m fine with that, because my hope at the moment is that you stop fucking talking,” I say sharply, and then jerk to avoid the glass he throws at me. It smashes into the mirror behind me, and I shake my head. “Well, that’s seven years’ bad luck. Jesus, I hope that doesn’t mean you’re staying.” I pause. “Never mind. I’ve now got a handy shard of glass to cut my wrists if that happens.”

  Liam snorts.

  “I’m going to get my stuff,” Fletcher says before slamming out of the room.

  “That won’t take long,” I shout. “Because I never let you leave anything, and you don’t live here.”

  Silence falls in the living room, and then Liam stirs. “So, you don’t want to fuck me?”

  I look at him in disbelief.

  “Worth a try,” he says, shrugging. “You’re hot for an old bloke.”

  “I’m thirty-two,” I say indignantly. “I’m hardly Methuselah.”

  He shakes his head and aims a crooked grin at me, which I ignore in favour of pouring another drink. I shake the bottle at him. “Want one?”

  “Really?”

  I shrug. “Why not?”

  He settles down on the sofa, accepting the glass I hand him. He glances up at the ceiling, his eyebrows rising at the sound of pounding footsteps and drawers slamming open and shut. “If he hasn’t left anything, what’s he doing up there?”

  “Taking the silver, I expect,” I say gloomily, and then shrug. “It’s worth it not to see him again.”

  “He does seem a bit high-maintenance.”

  I laugh. “Mariah Carey is high-maintenance. Fletcher is in a whole different league.”

  “Why were you together?” he asks.

  I smirk. “Sex and…” I pause and tap my lip. “No, it was just sex.”

  He laughs and then looks at me curiously. “So, why aren’t you with this other bloke, then? Fletcher seems to think you’ve got a hard-on for him.”

  “Fletcher doesn’t really think, as much as make wild stabs in the dark,” I say cautiously, and then sigh. “This night is so surreal. I don’t want a relationship with anyone, so there’s no point in discussing this any further.”

  “Do you like him?”

  I look at him searchingly, and he shrugs, giving me a crooked grin. Something about it reminds me of Dylan so much that I feel a pain in my chest. I rub it absently. “Yes, I do like him,” I say quietly. “He’s funny and clever and kind and…”
I shrug, running out of words.

  There’s an awkward pause while I take a sip of my drink and then Liam stirs. “I’d have a go if I were you, mate. My mum always used to say that men move mountains for sex when all they actually need to do is move their arse.”

  I choke out a laugh. “That’s extraordinarily descriptive.”

  He shakes his head. “That’s my mum.” He looks me up and down. “Seems a bit of a shame to me. A clever bloke like you in a nice, big house with everything at his fingertips, and still all alone.”

  “That’s the way I like it,” I say firmly, ignoring the truth of his statement.

  He looks as if he’s going to disagree, but at this point, Fletcher slams into the room with a bag on his shoulder. I think of looking through it, but I can’t be bothered. Whatever he has, he’s welcome to it, as long as I never have to see him again.

  “Are you ready, Michael?” he says sharply.

  Liam shakes his head and gets up.

  “You’re going with him?” I ask.

  He grins. “Have you seen his arse? Of course, I’m going with him. Surely he’s got to shut his mouth while he’s being fucked?”

  “I’d like to tell you that, but it’d be a lie,” I say dolefully. “He’s still capable of talking crap even when he’s coming.”

  His soft laughter follows them out, and then the door slams, leaving me alone on the sofa. The quiet settles in around me again like a soft blanket. Usually, I love the feeling of solitude. After years of being in care homes, where privacy was at an absolute minimum and noise and bustle were prevalent, I’ve always savoured the stillness of my home.