Wake Up Call Read online




  Riptide Publishing

  PO Box 1537

  Burnsville, NC 28714

  www.riptidepublishing.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. All person(s) depicted on the cover are model(s) used for illustrative purposes only.

  Wake Up Call

  Copyright © 2017 by JL Merrow

  Cover art: Garrett Leigh, www.blackjazzdesign.com

  Editor: Sarah Lyons

  Layout: L.C. Chase, lcchase.com/design.htm

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher, and where permitted by law. Reviewers may quote brief passages in a review. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Riptide Publishing at the mailing address above, at Riptidepublishing.com, or at [email protected].

  ISBN: 978-1-62649-540-1

  First edition

  April, 2017

  Also available in paperback:

  ISBN: 978-1-62649-541-8

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  South London mechanic Devan Thompson has gone to Porthkennack to track down someone he’s been waiting all his life to know. But Dev’s distracted from his quest by Kyle, a broodingly handsome local of only a few months, who’s already got a reputation as an alcoholic because of his strange behaviour—including a habit of collapsing in the street.

  Kyle Anthony fled to Porthkennack to escape from the ruins of his life. Still raging against his diagnosis of narcolepsy—a condition that’s cost him his job as a barrister, his lover, and all chance of normality—the last thing he wants is another relationship that’s doomed to fail. But Dev’s easygoing acceptance and adaptability, not to mention his good looks, have Kyle breaking all his self-imposed rules.

  When disaster strikes Dev’s adored little sister, Kyle steps up to the plate, and Dev sees a side of his lover he wasn’t prepared for: competent, professional—and way out of Dev’s league. With one man determined that they don’t have a future and the other fearing it, life after Porthkennack is starting to look bleak for both of them.

  With thanks to all those who helped with this book: Penelope Friday, Pender Mackie, Kristin Matherly, L.C. Chase, and my fantastic editor, Sarah Lyons. And especial thanks to Alex Beecroft for creating the wonderful world of Porthkennack for me and my fellow authors to play in, and giving it such a rich and inspiring history.

  About Wake Up Call

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Epilogue

  Author's Note

  Dear Reader

  Also by JL Merrow

  About the Author

  More like this

  “You all right, mate? Mate?”

  The bloke didn’t answer, just carried on half-sitting, half-lying there on the bench, eyes glassy behind his Aviator shades.

  Dev glanced back at the Square Peg Café. He’d been sitting outside drinking the world’s crappest latte, wondering if he should’ve gone for the cream tea, when he’d noticed the man on the other side of the road. The bloke had slumped down onto the bench all of a sudden, and not like his feet had been killing him and he couldn’t wait to take the weight off. No, this had been jerky, unnatural—more like he hadn’t been able to stand up any longer. After a split second waiting to see if someone else was going to deal with it, Dev had jumped up and jogged over the quiet street.

  Now he was here, though, he still wasn’t sure whether to call an ambulance or call the bloke a wanker for pissing him about.

  There were only two other people who’d been daft enough to join Dev at the outside tables under the cloudy skies, a middle-aged couple in matching walking gear, and neither of them bothered to look up from their phones. The skinny waitress stopped clearing tables long enough to roll her eyes at Dev and make a scornful drinking-up gesture.

  Great. That was well public-spirited, that was. So what if Dev’s Good Samaritan act turned out to be over the local alco? Even alcoholics got ill. Had strokes and stuff, didn’t they? Like his mate Mal’s uncle, who staggered around everywhere these days looking wasted even on the rare occasions he wasn’t on the piss.

  This bloke looked way too young for that sort of crap, mind. Midthirties, tops, although the full, dark beard made it harder to tell for sure. Pretty fit too, with a lean build and broad shoulders. Dev reached over to grasp one of them and give it a gentle shake.

  Dev wasn’t even certain if that was what had done the trick, but a second or so later the bloke roused and blinked, life coming back into deep-blue eyes. “Sorry,” he said, frowning up at Dev. “Did I . . .? Sorry.”

  “’S all right, mate.” Dev realised he was still hanging on to the bloke’s shoulder and let go in a hurry. His hand felt cold, after, and he shoved it in the pocket of his hoodie. “You okay now?”

  “Yes. Thank you.” His voice was clipped, like he was angry about something. “Sorry to disturb your . . . Sorry.”

  Dev couldn’t help a laugh. “You’re gonna wear that word out, mate.”

  For the first time—at least, that was what it felt like—the bloke focussed on Dev properly. He smiled, his lips twisting up in a mocking way that turned him from some random bloke on a bench into a guy it might be interesting to get to know. “Sorry,” he said again, laying on the irony with a shovel.

  “Wanker.” Dev grinned, then wondered if he’d gone too far. His foster dad was a drinker, and that bastard’s moods could turn on a sixpence. He took a step back without even thinking about it.

  Bench bloke’s smile buggered off like the bloody Cornish sun had done ever since Dev got here, and he stood up.

  “Thanks for your concern,” he said frostily. Then he strode off up the road without even a backward glance.

  Huh. There was gratitude for you. Dev watched him stalk off for a mo, decided he probably wasn’t going to fall over anytime soon, then shrugged
and went back to his table.

  “You’re wasting your time with that one,” the girl from the café told Dev as she gave him back the mug she’d just that minute put on her tray. At least, Dev hoped it was his mug she’d given him. “Don’t talk to nobody, he don’t. Some posh bastard from the Home Counties or God knows where, thinks he’s too good for the likes of us. Only come here to drown himself in a bottle.”

  Dev glanced up at her sideways. “Yeah? Funny how he didn’t smell of drink, then.” He took a sip of his half-cold coffee and wondered why he’d bothered.

  “Give ’im a good sniff, did you?” She straightened, hands on her back like Dev’s foster mum had done when she was pregnant with the twins, although this girl wasn’t carrying any extra weight around the middle. She wasn’t carrying any weight around the middle. A white girl—pale white, like she hadn’t seen any more sun lately than she’d seen square meals—she looked a fair bit younger close up. He could see there weren’t any lines around her eyes, only dark smudges that could’ve been old mascara but Dev reckoned weren’t. She was wearing a name badge on her Square Peg Café T-shirt that said Ceri.

  Dev huffed out a laugh at it, and her dark eyes narrowed. “Somethin’ funny?”

  “Only that your mum couldn’t spell neither. I’m Devan. With an a instead of an o.”

  “Is that Indian? Sounds Indian. And Ceri’s Welsh and so’s my mum, on her mum’s side, so she spelled it just fine, which shows how much you know.”

  “Make a lot in tips, do you?” All right, he hadn’t meant to say that out loud.

  “Bugger all. It’s all tight English bastards we get here.” She gave him a sharp look. “So is your mum Indian or what?”

  “No.” He knew that much.

  “Your dad?”

  Dev shrugged. Like he was going to tell someone he’d only known five minutes how his mum had given him up for adoption before he’d drawn his first breath and had never bothered to leave a single bit of info about his dad.

  Christ, when was even thinking about it going to stop being like ripping off a scab?

  Kerry-spelled-Ceri cocked her head, not fazed by his lack of communication. “Your skin’s not that dark, but your hair’s more black than brown, and it’s not curly like if you were African or Jamaican or summat. And you’ve got those big, dark eyes like a lot of Indian lads do. Nice eyelashes too. Could be. You still gonna be here in half an hour?”

  Dev bristled. “Why? Not like you need the table, is it?” The place was three-quarters empty, even inside, and out here there was room for half a coachload more. Even the his ’n’ hers hikers looked like they were about to bugger off.

  She rolled her eyes again. “That’s when I finish work. You want to get a drink or something?”

  Okay, he had not seen that coming. Dev gave her a sharper look, taking in the tension in the way she held herself, and wondered why he hadn’t noticed how brittle that hard shell of hers was till now. Wasn’t like he hadn’t seen that kind of thing before, was it? “Sorry, love, I don’t do girls.” He tried to say it gently.

  Ceri scowled at him like he was something she’d scraped off the bottom of her shoe. It was weirdly reassuring. “Like you were going to be doing me, anyway. I said get a drink, not make a bloody sex tape. Or do you only bother talking to people you’re hoping to shag?”

  “All right, then.” Dev gave her a steady look. “But I’ll see you back here. I’m not numbing my arse on this seat drinking cold coffee for half an hour.”

  “Suit yourself. I’ll see you at five. Or I won’t.” She swept away and started clearing the tables inside.

  Dev gave his coffee a wry smile. Then he stood and left it on the table with relief.

  He checked his watch as he made his way along the street, not really heading anywhere in particular. It was more like forty minutes until five o’clock—must’ve been a bit of wishful thinking on Ceri’s part. He wasn’t sure, if he was honest, why he’d agreed to go for a drink with her, seeing as he’d never had a right lot of female friends, and this one had a chip on her shoulder the size of the Severn Bridge . . . Fuck it. He knew exactly why. This way, at least he wouldn’t be drinking on his own, which was all he’d reckoned he had to look forward to after Mal had bailed on him for a better offer, the tosser.

  When he knew bloody well how much this trip meant to Dev. Christ. If Dev thought too much about all that crap, he was going to end up like that sad bastard on the bench. Dev wondered how it’d started with him—the drinking and all. If that was what it was. Still, Ceri was the local here. She ought to know if the bloke was a drunk or not.

  Shame, though. Him being so fit and all.

  Dev grinned at himself. Hoping for a bit of holiday romance, was he? Like that was ever going to happen. He’d checked out the local gay scene online before he came—just for something to do, because that wasn’t what he was here for—and there wasn’t one. Oh, plenty of places that reckoned they were “gay friendly,” but that was it.

  Well, that and a listing for a public toilet that was supposed to be “popular with young dudes,” but that had turned out to be in Australia. Porthkennack Street, Melbourne, to be exact. Dev wondered which ex-pat had named that street in fond memory of the old place, and how horrified he’d be to see what it was famous for these days.

  If he kept walking this way, Dev realised, he was going to run out of town. His feet had carried him down towards the beach and a short way along the coastal road that bordered it, sometimes closely and sometimes farther away, like it’d been laid out by a bunch of drunk navvies. A sign up ahead told him he was on the right track to get to Booby’s Bay and the Round Hole—where did they even get these place names? Dev amused himself imagining a gang of old Cornish smugglers and pirates, all wearing tricorn hats and eyepatches, not to mention a parrot or two, sitting round a barrel of rum and laughing themselves silly as they marked up a map.

  Of course, some of them could have been his ancestors. Dev stopped smiling. Shit. What was he even doing here?

  Dev turned on his heel and started walking back the way he’d come. He was walking into the wind now, and it carried the fresh, briny scent of the ocean. It reminded him of Southend, where he’d been taken for day trips when he was little, except it was different, too. The air here smelled cleaner. Wilder. A gull screamed overhead, white boys on surf boards chased the waves in the bay, and an almost overpowering sense of not belonging swept over him. For a moment he was fiercely tempted to run back to the B&B, chuck his stuff in his rucksack, jump on the Hornet, and zoom off home to London.

  Then a trio of girls in bright, summery hijabs and jeans walked past, one of them flashing him a smile and the whole lot of them breaking into giggles a minute later, and Dev felt somehow better. Yeah. Why the hell shouldn’t he be here? This place might be a lot whiter than he was used to, but it’d always had new people come in, hadn’t it? Like all those Turkish sailors the tourist bumf had been on about, who’d built Cornwall’s first mosque right in the centre of town.

  Speaking of town . . . Dev glanced at his watch. Shit. He needed to get back, or he’d be late to meet Ceri. He quickened his pace into a half jog, dodging round families dawdling on the seafront with their ice creams.

  Slowing down at the end so he wouldn’t be out of breath, Dev got back to the café dead on five. It was just as well because Ceri was already waiting outside. She’d changed out of the frumpy black skirt she’d worn for work and pulled on a pair of skinny jeans that were living right up to their name and no mistake. They could’ve been made for a seven-year-old. Dev gave her a look. “Don’t they feed you at this place?”

  “Fuck off with the body-shaming. Sexist bastard. I wouldn’t eat that shite we serve to the grocks. And like you’ve got a leg to stand on, anyhow, mister skinny fucking latte and no scones.”

  “Yeah, well, I hear they’re shite here. What’s your problem? You’re off work now. Cheer up.”

  “I’ll cheer up when you get me to that bloody pub and bu
y me a drink. And no, not the sodding Slug and Lettuce. That’ll be full of grocks all thinking they know me from somewhere and that it gives ’em the right to grope my bum.”

  “You ain’t got no bum to grope. So where are we going, then? And what’s a grock when it’s at home?”

  “You are. Bloody tourists.”

  Dev laughed. “You’re unbelievable, you know that? It’s bloody tourists like me what pay your wages, remember.”

  “Bloody rubbish tippers, the lot of ’em.”

  “Maybe you should try smiling once in a while, yeah?” Dev held up his hands to ward off her poisonous look. “Oi, just a suggestion. Done it meself, ain’t I? Waited on tables. Punters like service with a smile. The end of my shift, my face used to ache like I’d been deep-throating King Kong, but I made a packet in tips.”

  “Bet you did. Bet you got your bum groped a few times too, you with your dark eyes and all.”

  Dev grinned, because yeah, he had. Mostly by girls drunk off their heads at hen parties, but still.

  They walked in silence for a bit, because they were going right through town and the pavements were too busy with dawdling tourists to make conversation easy. Ceri dodged round them with tight-lipped impatience, making Dev have to hurry to catch up.

  It was a flipping long way to go for a drink for someone who’d been on her feet all day. It wasn’t like they hadn’t passed any other pubs, either. There’d been a tearoom, too, that’d looked way nicer than the Square Peg Café, and Dev thought he’d caught a glimpse of the mosque, but Ceri had dragged him onwards before he could be sure. They were right out the other side of Porthkennack now, and if they went much farther they’d end up in the sea. Maybe that was Ceri’s plan. Maybe she was the local serial killer and was bringing him all this way so she could shove him off a cliff unseen.

  She’d be out of luck, then. There were still plenty of tourists swarming the streets like ants at a picnic, even this far away from the main beach, and family cars idled past them as they walked down the road.

  “So where are we going?” Dev asked as they rounded a sharp corner and headed down a side street. “You still ain’t said.”