My Way 16

My Way 


18 Joe




Springing from his seat, Joe swooped to yank Mac’s chair toward him before leaping aboard his bad-ass’ lap. Pretty nifty work it was too; so swift it saved Mac the bother of cussing about it. Crikey. Joe’s crotch—naked beneath his robe—was crushed to a stonking boner straining against snug-as-a-bug tailoring. Too irresistible to noteth not…or murmur the list of longings it unleashed.

“F’fucksakes,” Mac may have groaned but didn’t seem too miffed that his way had just been jerked Joe’s. Nor did he protest when Joe cupped that cut-glass jaw to capture the mouth he might never have enough of. No matter whether it was twerking in a devilish grin, growling orders, set in a don’t-push-your-luck line, or...ooh, gawd. Joe was still having a hard time believing that had happened. He’d spent forever aching for kisses like these…the sort that inspired rhapsodic reams of poesy, making mere mortals wonder where it all went wrong. Or scoff. Even as they—we—devour them…and dream impossible dreams. 

More… Joe couldn’t sit still, despite fearing he would be shoved off if he settled himself more…comfily in his seat. When the wee wriggle didn’t reap its just deserts ejection, Joe shuffled a smidge closer, tilting his hips to make matters more cosy. The moan that rumbled in Mac’s throat was sin itself, a sound so raw it’s rasp could strike matches. It’s effect was a metaphor too obvious to make. 

“Please…” A plea as pointless as it was irrepressible while tugging on Mac’s plush lower lip with his teeth. 

“No…” Mac groaned, but those glorious greens began rolling back in his head, so Joe carried on regardless. Hoping he might just be permitted to grind his way to giddy victory before Mac mustered the wherewithal to demur. That felt a mite less damning than ‘dumping Joe on his ass in a most unceremonial fashion’ so, he went with it. While the going was oh, so goood…which o’course, proved a far-too tempting turn o’phrase for fate to resist. Trouncing.

“F’fucksakes…Ssstop,” Mac hissed, grasping Joe’s hips to shove him back, sharpish. Not that far, thankfully. 

“Pfhh. Suit y’self,” Joe levered himself to his feet and retrieved his right leg to turn and stomp off in a huff. He wasn’t so much miffed as…hurt. That was too pitiful to make apparent, so…miffy it was. “I’m going to my room. Alone.” 

After skittering upstairs to the attic, Joe shoved the door shut behind him. Why was Mac being so stubborn? It didn’t make sense. The blow job made even less sense. It was driving Joe bonkers. He paused a mo to knead at his thighs; the cramp was so excruciating, it felt as if bashing the muscle with a hammer would help, rather than hurt. His guts were gnarled in knots, the need so gnawing, it did cross Joe’s mind to cook up a mite more than usual. That would be cutting his nose off to spite his face—in too many ways to count—but it was tricky to care when Mac was too…everything to put up with Joe’s crap for long.

He was a man at the top of his game. Joe had been a hairsbreadth from rock bottom for a tedious amount of time—for everyone who mattered—Mac included. The scant few hours he’d tolerated were plenty to conclude that Joe wasnae worth the monotony money. Or, the inevitable blight on his unblemished bad-ass rep.

Facts that made the lure of the ultimate painkiller all the more compelling. So, Joe was most dischuffed to find himself cooking up just-enough to suffice…not least when that felt a lot like Mac had won. Again. 

Shrugging off his robe, Joe scrutinized his arms in hopes of happening upon a vein that wasn’t shot to shit. A likelihood less probable than Mac being seduced by their charms. At all. Ever. Who the bejeezus could be? P’raps less discerning folk who pardoned the track marks, scars and eye-sores their rose-coloured specs pronounced ‘tortured genius’? Joe didn’t believe that for one second, but it had been mooted so many times it was worth throwing in as a fallacy for Mac to scoff at. 

The only likely looking candidate for a fresh botching sat atop Joe’s right wrist, which meant a left handed pass-the-sick-bucket poke about. Ah well. Sinking down into the chair, Joe tied a tourniquet and rammed the needle in, digging about a bit ’til he finally hit pay dirt. Possibly a sick-in-the-throat sensation before the crunchy-nutters made a reappearance. After pressing down the plunger, Joe sank back in his seat and let the syringe fall unheeded to the floor; surrendering to the heady rush of relief shimmering through his veins.


“Jor JOR!” Am I on a boat…’tis a tad choppy on board. “JOR! F’chrissakes! Howmuchdidy’take muttermumblefuck’n’cuss…” Mac?


“Jor…look at me…” Cool hands…blissfully cool, cupped Joe’s face. “Jor…please…”

Jorjorjunkiejoefuckingsmackheadscum… Oh, knock yourselves out, y’know you want to… 


“Fine? I’ll give you fucking fine…” 

The world juddered and jerked. Arms…strong, sure arms…that luscious smell. Hmm… Joe inhaled the clean, husky warmth saturating his senses, nuzzling into the curve of Mac’s neck. Then…it was gone and Joe’s body was cradled by cool instead. Sooo soothing. He was a bitalot hot. Joe blinked, trying to focus on…a sloping ceiling? Above his bed? 


“Here…” A whisky-warm murmur as the mattress dipped beside Joe’s hip.

“Hmm…I’m glad…please don’t go.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” Mac’s voice was a husky rasp. Like a zipper. As soothing as the cool, which was weird. Or Joe was, one or t’other. Oh no…Mac is wayyy weirder. He’s still here, for a start.

“Just nodded off. It wasn’t…”

“It wasnae what?” Mac prompted, when Joe seemed to forget the rest of his sentence.


“I thought—” Mac broke off, muttering something like ‘whatthefuckdoint’me’ beneath his breath. That couldn’t be right…what the fuck am I t’do with you? 

“S’okay. I’m sleepy, s’all,” Joe yawned. Soo tired…too wound-up to sleep for…he had no idea. None at all…


It was still dark when Joe prised his lids apart. Not pitch-black: moonlight bleached the attic to bone and shades of silver grey, lending it a ghostly beauty. There seemed to be someone in Joe’s bed; huffing soft, sleepy snuffs of breath behind him. Spooky. Adam? In my bed? Spookier still…but hadn’t he gone back to London? Crikey. Mac? Still here. Beside Joe. Behind Joe. Fast asleep. Lifting his hand, he skimmed it over his own thigh, a smidge further back, ’til his fingers brushed the soft scratch of hair. Legs. Bare. Mac must have finally peeled those fancy strides off. The Mcbadass, oh, so nearly naked. In Joe’s bed. If he just tilted back a bit… 

“Jor…” It was a sigh of sound rather than a word when Joe’s shoulder brushed silken skin. 

“Yeah?” Was Mac still asleep?

“S’dark…still night.” he mutter-mumbled.

“I need a smoke, go back to sleep,” Joe whispered

Smack!? You passed out a few hours ago!” Mac spluttered, jolting to awareness.

Smoke not smack, y’daftie. Mac?” Joe shuffled forward a smidge to turn over and face him.


“Thank you…for putting me to bed n’all…”

“S’okay. I thought—” Breaking off abruptly, Mac clamped bruising fingers to Joe’s thigh. Sending a bolt of lust blazing through his body; as breathtaking as it was brutal. “…you’d—Fuck.” 

Mac snatched his hand away but before Joe could grieve its loss, the back of his head was clasped and their mouths crashed together. Mac’s lips—hot, hungry—demanding what Joe was only too glad to give. Oh, the joy of splaying his palm across the sleep-warm skin of Mac’s back…at last. Eclipsed when panther hips snapped against him in a slam of cotton-clad-steel. A smidge too high, but strewwth; thick, hard, hot…huge.

Joe firmed the press of his fingers; cleaving them closer still. Skin to skin, chest to chest, sheer bliss. P’raps if he slid his hand a little lower…Joe’s fingertips brushed Mac’s waistband; he froze, waiting… The bad-ass either didn’t notice, or mind, but he didnae demur when Joe edged beneath the elastic…nor when he inched an itty bit further. Quite the contrary, to Joe’s utter astonishment, Mac pressed his weight forwards. Crikey… Joe could be accused of much—and oft was—but never of being slow on the uptake. Lickety-spit, Joe was clasping the sublime swell of a cheek and rocking back to tug Mac atop him. 

Every burnished inch of his bad-ass was pressing Joe into the bed; a wall of hard heat as heady as it was heavy. Joe’s palm was clamped across the sumptuous curve it had coveted all day…his lips being devoured by the most mind-boggling mouth that had ever graced them with kisses. Heaven. P’raps he was still away in the land of nod…or adrift on opium dreams? No. He couldn’t be, because the bad-ass abruptly snatched himself away. Cold air slammed against Joe’s skin—heavier than Mac’s weight had been—crushing his chest.

“Ma—” His name cut off sharpish when Joe’s bicep was grasped in a death grip and yanked, flipping him over onto his front. His face was still buried in the pillow when his legs were shoved apart for knees to settle between them. Joe had yet to get his breath back when his hips were tugged up with a swift jerk…and he all-but passed out. Unless, he had. No other explanation made sense, nor was it likely to any time soooon. Or ever again…by the time Mac was done with his dastardly dappling.

Stonethecrows’n’strewthalmighty. “AAHH!” The air blasted from Joe’s lungs, expelled by the flicker of moist heat at his very core. Mac’s tongue. Darting into Joe’s darkest dreamscape. Never had he dared imagine that the meanest mo-fo on earth (or thereabouts) would dally that where the sun don’t shine. Joe wasn’t that daft.

His entire self seemed to melt into the bed as ecstasy licked along his veins, radiating through every fibre of his being. If he’d had the wherewithal to think about it, Joe’s head might’ve exploded, such was the scorch of shock to his system…but he could scarce summon the brain cells to turn his head in a bid to breathe. Or, gasp a lot and unleash random syllables that made more sense than thissss.

“Ma-fuck-ah-god-gnr-ahh..” It p’raps sounded if he was being strangled but Joe was past caring about owt but the slinky skills of that tongue: flickering like a firefly, spearing Joe’s soul with impossible bliss. “Mac! Please…” he begged as the blighter indulged in a wee swirl hell-bent on obliterating foolhardy grey matter still lingering about. Joe didn’t have the foggiest what he was pleading for. Please…more? Don’t stop? Please-don’t-leave-me? Promise-you’ll-stay-forever-or-thereabouts…

Please…?” Mac enquired, before blowing a stream of cool air across well-sluiced skin. Ooooh.

“Need you.

“Me…or thisss..?” Mac’s sultry rasp was spine-tingling in itself, but the hips that snapped against Joe in a slam of hard heat were incendiary. 

“Yesss…” Joe may have sighed. Hmm… Mac’s cock. Parked in happy valley. Bare-bad-assed-naked. P’raps his pants had finally melted undie duress. 






My Way 15

My Way

17 Mac




“Why won’t you let me, if you want me to?” Joe looked beyond bewildered. As well he might. Mac was all-but gnashing his teeth. Sitting on the bed beside a sated, naked Joe, suffering the worst case of cripple cock he’d ever endured. 

Christ. Want him to? There was only one thing Mac craved more…but a blow job would have sufficed in the meantime. He couldnae afford to hand over the reins ’til he was damn sure they’d be relinquished—or surrendered on command—if Joe preferred, as Mac had a hunch he might.

“Joe. My way. On my terms. Ring a bell?” This was excruciating. Mac had worked undercover before, but never as himself, f’fucksakes.

“Quit chuntering,” he couldn’t help but chuckle—or refrain from ruffling Joe’s fluffy shock of hair—after being treated to some much miffed huffing and puffing. “You agreed to the terms, so suck it up.”  A most unfortunate expression if ever there was one. Mac was driving himself nuts (which, in turn, were protesting painfully).

“Humph. If only. Later-wards?” Joe actually fluttered his eyelashes while pinning on an angelic grin. The monster might’ve sighed “Oh, okay…” when Mac growled his name, but those irrepressible eyes belied his acquiescence. “What time is it?”

“Time to eat. I’m starving.” Mac stated, in tones that brooked no argument.

“You can’t say I didn’t offer,” Joe muttered.

“Joe. Food. You havenae eaten sod all, except cereal.”

“Tasty it was, too. I’m really not hungry. For food.” Added with a toothy grin.

“What are you willing to ingest?” Mac emphasized. 


“Y’cannae survive on smack and crunchy nut cornflakes,” Mac stated, scraping a despairing hand through his hair.

“Y’can. I’m living proof of that.”

“You must have the constitution of an ox. It’s a miracle you can still get it up at all.”

“So it seems, as the Doc is far too fond of informing me. When he’s not issuing proclamations of doom about its future prospects…and those of my fingers. Someone’s put him up to the hands thing, I’m sure of it. Be my voice box next, I bet. Blighters.”

“If I order something in, will you share it?” Mac asked, rather than respond to a prognosis he couldnae refute.

“No, cos I want crunchy-nutters.”

“Fine. I cannae be arsed to argue the toss about cornflakes. C’mon, put something on, so we can get you fed.”

“My robe’ll do…it’s comfy.” More huffing and puffing accompanied Joe’s progress from bed to bathrobe, followed by a ‘much miffed’ stomp downstairs.

Doc McCafferty’s diagnosis? All show and no substance. If Joe was indeed pissed off, Mac sure as hell wouldnae be standing around assessing that fact.

“What are you having? There should be some tasty stuff in the freezer.”

“I’m not fussed, t’be honest. Are there enough crunchy-nutters for two?” Acceding to said moniker seemed a wee concession in the scheme of things.

“There should be, Adam said he’d brought six, so I’d better bloody remember to eat ’em. I can’t have forgot to scoff that many.”

If there was an answer to that…it wasnae about to suggest itself this side of six bottles of scotch. “They’ll suffice, for now…there’s some bananas in my bag. D’you want one slicing up for yours, while I’m doing mine?”

“I’d rather eat it separately.” Joe decided after musing the matter as if it was a tie breaker on University Challenge. 

“Okay,” Mac mustered a nonchalant shrug. As opposed to thrusting a triumphant fist in the air—because Joe had agreed to consume a piece of fruit—f’chrissakes. He was going soft in the head. After bending to break a couple of bananas off the bunch in his holdall, Mac placed them on the countertop and extracted the switchblade from his pocket. 

“Crikey…Mack-the-Knife, all present and correct. Have you got a pair of pliers too?”

“No, just tranquilizer darts and manacles.” Mac shrugged.

“Fibber. I really doubt you came bearing gifts. If there’s Ketamine in that bag, I’ll eat my hat stand.” Joe snickered, pouring a crunchy-nut mountain into two bowls he’d retrieved from the cupboard. 

“I can’t really argue with that. Thanks,” Mac added, slicing a banana to scatter on his own and handing one to Joe when he’d done the milk pouring honours.

“Hmm…that smell…” After pretty much shoving his face in the bowl, Joe inhaled with a lingering purr of appreciation. How the hell does he make every damn thing seem so…charming? Even when he’s being bloody impossible? Even when? He ratchets it up another notch or ninety to counter that fact. Mac was starting to feel uncannily akin to Kindergarten Cop. On acid.  

NB: Persuading Joe to eat a piece of fruit = Triumph > Torture in the time it takes to peel a banana. Eat? The monster fellated it. 

“Joe,” Mac growled.

“Wha—?” The miscreant managed to communicate, while freezing mid-bite, lips wrapped obscenely around its…shaft.

“You know very well ‘what’,” Mac grunted.

“Nope, no idea what you’re talking about,” Joe blinked, the picture of innocence. After slowly withdrawing the banana to speak.

“I’d ram that up your arse if I didnae think you’d enjoy it too much,” Mac glowered.

“Perv…” Joe cackled.

I am not the one performing fellatio on a banana.” 

“It’s not my fault. My mouth was watering, all geared up and raring to go. I am simply appeasing its misery,” Joe sniffed.

“You. Are…impossible.” Mac cussed, stomping over to the table with their cereal. His temper was unravelling, toting his patience along for the ride. He felt fit to explode. What dickhead dreamed up this oh, so cunning plan? Without even recourse to a trip to the loo to have a wank in peace? 

“Charmin’. I’m being as good as gold too. Mac, when I’ve scoffed my crunchy-nutters…” If the puppy dog eyes hadnae been a dead giveaway, Joe’s toe-scuffing tone proclaimed his plea from the rooftops. 

“Yeah,” Mac sighed. “I didn’t expect you to hold out so long.”

“Told ya…I was a mite distracted.”

“I’d be on the Atkins Diet if I ‘distracted’ you as often as necessary.”

 “If I can pick my own protein delivery method, I’d be more than happy to go on it. You’d need to, if I had my way. Mac…? What are you doing?”

“Banging my head on the table, what the fuck does it look like?” Mac muttered, having shoved his seat back to do exactly that. 

“You’ve gone ‘nanas, I reckon. It would be a lot less painful to just—”

“Joe. Go and shoot up and shut it, for chrissakes or I’m going to stab you,” Mac cut him off.

“Oh, testy. I’d take yourself off for a wank if I were you, before your plot, ’tis lost…”

“I am fine.” Man retorted, mustering a glare so menacing it tended to make more painful means of persuasion redundant. 

 “Suit y’self. Just trying to be helpful. Please may I be excused, Sir?”

“Aye…just please don’t go overboard,” Mac sighed, resigned to the inevitable.

“I won’t.” Joe’s teasing tone smoothed to a soothing murmur; “I promise. You might get the elbow…and I don’t want that to happen. Mac?” 

“Aye?” He glanced up, only to find himself ensnared in bottomless brown.

When Joe shot to his feet, the screech of chair across tile preceded a yank on Mac’s to jerk it Joe’s way. The miscreant had straddled Mac’s lap before he had time to protest. If he’d intended to. 

“Soo hard…” Joe sighed. A creamy sound of satisfaction that made matters worse. “Mac…I want you to take me…from behind…every bit as fast, ferociously, as you long to. I want it all…all of you…”

“F’fucksakes,” Mac groaned when his earlobe was snagged with tender-sharp teeth. Dragging in a deep breath, he tried to swallow the breeze block lodged in his throat…and blot out the images Joe had just branded on his brain. 

“Exactly…” he breathed, before clasping Mac’s face to tilt it up for a full scale assault of drugging lips…and darting tongue hell-bent reinforcing them in HD. 

Only a couple more hours. He could hold out for that long. My Way. On my terms…Mac reminded himself, just as Joe unleashed a mind-boggling roll of hips. 




My Way 14

My Way




16 Joe


“Earth to Joe…” Mac’s whisky-warm voice filtered through the fuzz, summoning Joe from his happy haze. He blinked, trying to refocus on a green as lethal as a shot of la fée verte.

“Better now?” Mac asked with a husky chuckle.

“Mmmuch…kiss me,” Joe pleaded, needing to know if Mac would or, if…if he was done proving his point now? Or…or…Joe could keep going for quite some time, avoiding the real reason—No. Two reasons; equally compelling. 

  1. Joe was the neediest knobhead on Earth. Mac was right, except ‘greedy’ suggested a tendency to sneak a snackeroo too many. Joe’s appetite was so insatiable it had never known when to quit clamouring for more. Fucknows what. It sure as sausages wasn’t food. Or even sex, which left him hungrier than ever, more oft than not. As if he’d scoffed a crumb, when he could cram a whole loaf in his cakehole, with room for a dessert (trolley), while he was on the subject, an’ all. Despair had driven Joe t’drink. Then, to ‘recreational’ drugs. His one-way fast-track ticket to the epiphany that was: it could be sedated. He’d given up sated as a lost cause. 

See…? Joe could give stuff up, if he wanted.

  1. He was not a jot convinced he hadn’t just had the best hallucination of his life (rather than blow job). Joe wanted…well, he wanted to taste the truth for himself. On Mac’s lips. 

His own scent assailed Joe’s nostrils even before Mac melded their mouths. The kiss itself was, in no way whatsoever, a bonus. It was a breath-snatching slam of…tenderness. As shattering as it was incomprehensible. He’d be carted off in a straitjacket in a minute. It was impossible to care…while being taken apart by lips intent on reducing Joe to roadkill. 

He was done for, now. Doomed to a forever of knowing

The not knowing had nearly finished Joe off in an effort to quell...some unknowable need he could neither name nor satisfy. Or source some magic pill that would suffice, instead. It would be an irony too cruel if finding it proved the final nail in Joe’s coffin. 

“Mac?” Joe couldn’t stop himself asking when the dream drifted to an end. If he didn’t, it would keep gnawing away till he had a head full of sawdust. 

“Aye, Joe?” His oh, so grave tone didn’t do a damn thing to suppress Mac’s dastardly grin. 

“Is…was—” Where the bejeezus were Joe’s words? Drained dry prob’ly, like the rest of him.

“Is-was-what…?” Mac smirked. He was enjoying this far too much. Sadist.

“I-why…did you…do that?” Success; a sentence. Of sorts. Eventually. 

“Which part?” Demon.

“Any…all of it.” 

“Because…we wanted me to? Is there a better reason?” Mac shrugged.

“No…but I…didn’t think you wanted…me.” Joe puttered to a halt. He could scarce string three words together, they kept getting stuck in his throat on the way out. It was like coughing up shards of glass. 

“And yet…you saw for yourself that I did.” Mac pointed out, oh so reasonably. “Quite clearly…and commented on that fact, so you can’t claim otherwise.”

Joe’s entire self was itching to spring up and run around having a flap, to syphon off some tension. He wasn’t sure he could have stopped himself, if he wasn’t still tied to his own bloomin bed.

“Having a bit…a lot of a boner is different from doing…and very different from…giving. If you’d told me to blow you, I wouldn’t be so befuddled. You know I would have, and gladly, so why…give when you could have taken?”

“Perhaps I simply wanted to.” A big fat fib alongside another shrug. 

“I don’t think you do anything ‘simply’,” Joe informed him. “You’re too…considered. Deliberate.” 

“Perceptive…but not entirely true in this instance,” Mac sighed. “Fuck, I need a smoke.”

“Chance would be a fine thing,” Joe hmphed.

“I’m going to fetch them first, Mister. Otherwise you’ll lock yourself in the loo in the meantime,” Mac muttered. 

“You don’t need to…there should be a stash of smokes in here, somewhere. P’raps on that shelf, by the door?”

“So there are. Okay…” When Mac planted his palms on the bed to push himself up, a clutch of cold air coshed Joe’s chest. After leaning over to fiddle with the knot securing his right wrist to the bedstead, Mac let the arm flop free, bandana still intact. 

“Mac…?” Joe wondered, when the bad-ass started work on the scarlet one.


“Can I…keep this?” Joe asked, aiming for ‘airy’. Missing by a mile. 

“Cannae see why not, it’ll come in…handy for tethering you to the nearest table when I need to empty my bladder. I’d rather not have an audience, thank you.”

“Bummer. I wish I hadn’t asked now,” Joe grumbled, but still found himself grinning. Despite the fact he’d just scuppered two tasty alternative trips to the loo. Joe’s en-suite or Mac’s. 

Ah well, there was a chance he might be granted a far more salubrious sighting than the latter…and the bad-ass had promised not to stop Joe shooting up…so it wasnae too bad a deal, on the whole.

“Here, let me sort it or you’ll look like a bloody Morris Dancer. I suppose you want them both?” Mac grunted while rebinding the black bandana, wristband stylee.

“No, I like the red one against your skin. It’s rather rakish…” 

“Rakish…” Mac chuckled, unpicking Joe’s knot and unravelling the slash of scarlet before wrapping it around his own wrist and tying it off with his teeth. Ooh. “What?” The bad-ass had the bare-faced temerity to ask, raising a (rakish) eyebrow. He knew damn well what. Bodge bodge. 

“You’re driving me doolally,” Joe groaned.

“Not guilty, I’ve only been here a few hours. That balloon floated away many a moon ago, I reckon.” 

“That wouldn’t stand up in court, y’scoundrel. You’ve already tied me to my own bed and blown my brains out.” Joe huffed.

“A good day’s work, in all, I’d wager.” Mac announced with a satisfied glint o’teeth.

“Are you clocking off now?” Just checkin’.

“I clocked off about an hour ago.” Mac corrected while sashaying off to fetch the smokes.

“You’ve just contradicted yourself. Again. Is your work day done?” Joe was still none the wiser.

“I’ve answered that, so what are you asking? Spit it out,” Mac grinned, retrieving a fresh pack of cigarettes. Once he’d extracted one, he shoved it between devilish lips, then tossed the box Joe’s way while foraging in his pocket for a lighter. Joe waited till he’d lit them both before taking the bull by the horns. Or the bad-ass by the balls, so t’speak.

“Mac, can I blow you?” There. That was spat out succinctly. Joe would have preferred: If it is? Would his lordship care to slip into something more comfy and let me assist him in unwinding a little? But beggars can’t be choosers…tralala…

“Nope.” The scoundrel smirked.


“I wasnae thinking that far ahead. I merely answered your question.” Mac stated, blowing a stream of smoke ceiling ward. Grrrrrrr…

“Why don’t you want me to?” 

“I do.” Mac rustled up a c’est la vie shrug. He had a wider variety than Inuits have words for snow. 

“You’re doing it again. Contradicting yourself. Why won’t you let me, if you want me to?” Joe might p’raps have pouted. 

“Joe. My way. On my terms. Ring a bell?”

“Oh fuff. Okay. Damn blast’n’bugger…” he muttered.

“Quit chuntering.” Mac snickered, reaching out to ruffle Joe’s hair while leaning forward to flick ash into the overflowing ashtray.

“You’re doing my head in.”

“Stop sulking, you agreed to the terms, so suck it up.” Mac snorted.

“Humph. If only. Laterwards?”

Joorrr…” Mac warned. Damn, he even pulled off as-sexy-as-fuck while telling Jor off like a five year old.

 How was Joe supposed to stay miffed and have himself a huff when his cock kept perking up, cutting his strops off well before their prime? He would explode soon if this kept up. One way or another. Blackguardy bad-ass.




My Way 13

I think I need to leave this link at the top of a new post, rather than adding it to an old one, to claim my blog on Bloglovin



Sorry I’ve been a wee while, my ‘editing’ has become a full-blown rewrite, again.😳Without further ado: I’ve put both parts together, the update starts *** here



My Way

15 Mac




“Shhhh…” Mac pressed a fingertip to pillowsoft lips. There was no need for pleas…he didnae intend to belittle Joe, who’d suffered enough insult to last a lifetime. The last thing he needed was for Mac to stick the knife in too. Mac, who fully intended to stave off the slingshots of ‘friend’ and foe alike. Joe would discover that for himself soon enough, when Mac proved worthy of the trust he’d demanded along with Joe’s most faithless friend of all. For safe-keepingJoe’swhose customary buffer between him and the world was perilously close to snatching him from it. 

Mac might have drawn it out for Joe’s delectation…but there was a reason he was far less keen to admit. One that made him a helluva lot less comfortable than Joe at present. Wet patch or no. Mac was wary—a lie even as he fashioned it—afraid. Of being cast as just another lackey willing to service Joe whenever he wished. Or, even as a ‘favoured member of his entourage’, which was somehow more repulsive. Fucknows why. The lackey thing felt more…honest? Less…demeaning when the alternative suggested a systematic hierarchy Mac wanted no part of. F’chrissakes. He sure as hell had nay recollection of becoming such a prissy tosser. 

None of this was even Joe’s fault; he was a rock star, it came with the territory. Sex was pretty much a self-service banquet of bodies. Mac couldnae risk being reduced to that in those far-too beguiling eyes; neither in the professional or personal sense. The former was imperative to ensure Joe’s safety…the latter would destroy Mac.

He sure as shit didn’t mess about after hushing Joe’s plea. After whisking his finger away, Mac bent to take possession of the lips that had been driving him to distraction since the moment he walked through the door. The kiss in the bath had been a smashing of mouths; too sudden to relish and over too soon to be savoured. This time, Mac revelled in every second, each soft sound he coaxed from Joe, every catch of breath. Christ, how Mac wanted him, with a craving akin to a huge hungry ache. Longed to devour the promise of those lips and imprint himself so indelibly on Joe that…what? He could safeguard Joe as his own? That was pathetic.


The po-faced thing had been bad enough, and should by rights, prohibit prehistoric tendencies…surely? Mac couldn’t be both; that was a contradiction too far.  

See? Another oxymoron…’ my arse. Monster.

As if morphing into Caveman Prim wasnae demented enough, matters promptly took a turn for the worse…a whole lot worse.

It started so well… The sheer length of Joe’s neck had been doing Mac’s nut in, all day. Not least when it remained one of the few unblemished parts of Joe’s body visible after he’d dressed. The arms now bared to Mac’s scrutiny were…troubling. Multihued bruises scattered across ivory skin, pitted with circular lesions and strewn with needle marks. Botched veins, silvery slashes, more recent scoring, raised and red; ragged crimson gashes and clean cuts both. A stark contrast to the porcelain perfection of Joe’s throat, too alluring to resist from any angle…but bared to Mac’s gaze between butchered arms? It was an enticement too far.

When he smudged his mouth from Joe’s lips to fasten at his neck, its comparative cleanliness was too intoxicating to resist all but feasting on it. That’s what Mac told himself. In truth it was a compulsion, he wasnae sure he could have held back, even if he’d considered such folly. Mac did not. Far from it…he felt absurdly smug that this would be impossible to flee next time Joe scarpered to lock himself in the loo. One glance at the mirrored door of the bathroom cabinet would confirm that well enough for the rest of the week… 

He’d been a bloody teenager the last time Mac left such a blatant claim on someone’s skin. It would take the rest of the month to outnumber the self-administered marks already staining it, so Joe mightn’t even notice, but that didnae make a damn bit of difference. It would remain as clear as the fact that Prehistoric Prissypants was the least of Mac’s worries…  


 There was just so much Joe; he was an utter extravagance from head to toe…and all in between, without and within. It was more than time Mac commenced mapping the territory he’d arrived to safeguard. It wouldnae do to be remiss—tardy at best—unprofessional and amateurish at worst. Mac had an untarnished reputation for efficiency and attention to detail to uphold, after all. 

“Mac…please…” Joe begged, impaling him with pleading eyes; drowning deep, bottomless inkwells of liquid black. If that was a juxtaposition in terms, Mac didn’t give a shit. He hadnae uttered it aloud for Joe to pick out of his teeth when he’d done feasting on it.

Please…?” The husky rasp of his own voice sounded strange to Mac’s ears. Thick with lust, as if it had been trawled from his guts. “This please…?” He enquired, trickling his tongue across the proud sweep of Joe’s collarbone…dipping into the delicate juncture with its twin. So very vulnerable: push two fingers into the jugular notch, press down.

No one would get near enough to aim a roundhouse kick Joe’s way—let alone a move so intimate—on Mac’s watch. The mere thought made him feel murderous.

“Yessaah!” The hiss of the ‘yes’ followed the smearing of Mac’s mouth down Joe’s sternum…the gasp it segued into? The flick of his tongue across a puckered nipple. Trapping it between his teeth, Mac tugged none-too gently before turning his attention to the left and pouncing on that to taunt it likewise. 

“Maaac…” Joe groaned, twisting the restraints now trapped in his fists. “It’s torture…pleasssse.”

“You’re going to have to be more specific…” Mac murmured, releasing it.

 “I-ahH!” A clarification that was snatched away by the stream of cool air Mac blew across spit-slick skin.

“I wish I’d known it was so easy to shut you up…” 

“You might wish you’d never said that, either…” Joe groaned.

“Oooh, I doubt it.” Mac grinned, as he began to back up, trailing a snaky trip down the centre of Joe’s torso, helpless to stop the racket that rattled in his own throat when his chest grazed Joe’s cock. Mac couldnae hold off for a second longer, the sweet, sultry scent filling his head was too drugging to resist. An irony too far, if ever there was one. Mac finally planted his palms either side of those oh, so long shanks, and glanced up to find himself—as ever—plummeting into eternal eyes. 

“Machh…” His name cut off on a strangled gulp when Mac swept a luxuriant swipe of flattened tongue along the length of Joe’s cock. “AAAH!” Accompanied the jolting of lean hips off the bed as a rifle shot gasp ripped from his lips.

Fuck…Mac’s taste-buds exploded with pleasure when he bent to trace the sensitive seam beneath the ruffled velvet of Joe’s balls. Drawing both into his mouth, Mac lavished them with his tongue, revelling in the soft mewls and broken moans that tumbled forth. 

“Gah…Maa-ahhc…fuck, ah…I-opleasssse…” Joe juddered, wrists jerking against their binding, back bowing in frustration. It was a sentiment Mac couldn’t agree with more, he had to admitif only to himselfas he let them slip free with a soft pop of air. It was the sound of his own name that shattered his reverie, thrilling down his spine. 

“Maac! No more…I can’t…take—”

His hand felt as if it had been aching to enclose hard heat forever and a day—rather than the latter—when Mac permitted himself that prize, cutting short Joe’s plea. The electrifying rush that shot up his arm made him curse his own stubborn pride.

“You’re evil…” Joe whimpered, clearly unaccustomed to waiting on the whims of anyone else. 

“Poor Joe…” 

“And cruuuel,” he pouted. It should not have looked endearing. Let alone…adorable. F’chrissakes.

“And your point is…?” Mac started sweeping his wrist oh, so slowly back and forth.

“SadiST!” Joe’s soft slur ratcheted up to a shriek when Mac dipped his head to lap a pearly bead off the tip of his cock.


“Cock tease.” Joe hissed through clenched teeth.

“Pardon?” Mac asked, about a split-second before engulfing it, hilt deep in one fell swoop. At lassst...

“FUUUCK!” Joe hollered, head snapping back as his hips spasmed. For a brief moment his entire body went rigid before sinking against the sheets. Something about this utter capitulation made Mac long to prove…worthy of it. He’d lost his bloody mind.  

It was hard to care while relishing the sighs and soft cries that fluttered from Joe’s lips. Impossible to regret that, while exploring every quivering inch. Intent on luxuriating in every second of the liberty he’d craved—rarely permitted himself—since being blind-sided by the shrink-wrapped sight that greeted him on the doorstep. 

“Maac! Ah-stt-toop!”

Stop? Is he off his nut? Mac was done denying himself anything—for the momenthe could recoup his losses…later.

“I’ll come…if…y’don’t-ssstop-” …and your point is? Mac whisked his hand away. 

“Fuuuck!” Joe screeched when his cock crashed against the back of Mac’s throat. His neck arched in a long sweep of ivory as he snatched at the bandanas and his body shuddered. It was all Mac could do to swallow the sheer quantity of come that flooded his mouth. Strewthhow the hell had he held out? When it was done wringing Joe dry, his head lolled as the long, lean lines of his body went limp. Mac took his own sweet time relinquishing Joe’s cock, swiping it clean along the way before laying it down and levering himself forwards ’til he was level with Joe’s face. 

“Earth to Joe…” Mac couldn’t help but grin when lilac-tinged lids fluttered open to reveal a blissed-out glaze almost as erotic as the (unsurpassable) sight of Joe’s expression, mid-orgasm. 


“Better now?”

“Mmmuch…Mac…kiss me,” Joe blinked in a bid to focus as a sublime smile curved his lips. Instinct suggested that the reason for this request was as significant as the kiss itself, which in turn, made Mac suspect his missing marbles were a lost cause. And yet…

“Hmm…” The purr that vibrated in Joe’s throat when Mac melded their mouths did seem to confirm something he’d couldnae allow himself to believe. It was wishful thinking too far to imagine that Joe wanted to taste himself on Mac’s lips. Lunacy, when that imbued his motive with impossible meaning.  

The blow job itself had seemed an excellent idea at the time of planning—doubly expedient—both to gain a firm grip on the reins and yes, because Mac had wanted to. He now felt rather as if he’d just shot himself in the fucking foot. He might have been able to emerge from this with a career (and some sanity) intact before…but now?

Mac was—to coin a phrase—buggered.





My Way 12


My Way

14 Joe

“No. I want you…to stay. So, okay.” 

Pft, that was a bit of a no-brainer. Joe could always tweak the rules a tad, later. A spot of tweaking was fine sport indeed when he was bored…and he’d been bored t’buggery of late. That last part was a bit of a fib but, suffice to say, matters had gone a…mite amiss. Bummer. If Joe had known his mishaps would reap such bad-ass rewards, he could’ve cooked up a more impressive plummet. 

Mac must have deemed that a satisfactory response as he started trickling a taser trail of fingertips down the centre of Joe’s chest. Down, down, to his belly button in a torturous tickle that skirted its dip, lower still…to skim along Joe’s happynooooo. Mac whipped his hand away, just as it neared the tip of Joe’s clamouring cock.

It was not the only thing that felt like flippin’ weeping. The grin that accompanied this dastardly deed was as dark as it was downright delicious. Ev-il incarnate, that’s what he was. Nemesis, my arse. He was the devil dipped in Caramac and dangled in front of Joe’s nose like a bad-ass buffet. How he ached to be crushed beneath that steely strength…oh, so close but light years away, tormenting Joe with his very… existence.

Joe fully expected Mac to stop for a smoke break roundabout then, or pop out to purchase some sheets in a sudden change of heart or…unleash whatever else that blackguardy brain rustled up. 

What the bad-ass did instead, was even more staggering. Even if Joe had expected it, nothing could’ve prepared him for the seismic shock to his system caused by the cocking of Mac’s leg to seat him astride Joe’s hips…which is what did happen. Unless Joe had lost the plot, which seemed much more possible than being accosted by Mac’s crotch. That said, if Joe had wished it into being? His bad-ass would be bare-ass naked. No doubt about it. A fact as definitive as a deed signed in blood.

Joe’s entire self had been thrumming like a snare drum in dreadful anticipation—of…being abandoned—as if he’d snorted adrenaline rather than smack. So, when Mac helped himself to a wee sit down, the rush of relief was almost as breath-snatching as the bolt of blimey that blitzed Joe’s body.

“Ooh, so impatient…” The scoundrel smirked. Did that mean; all good things come to he who waits…?  Joe might just burst into flames first. Despite the most sadistic soggy patch he’d ever been forced to suffer. Pfffh. “Mac, I—”

“Shhh…” Not content with shushing him, Mac actually placed a forefinger on Joe’s lips. 

Joe did consider biting it, but figured it would be best not to gift Mac more ammunition to use against him. Never, had Joe been so glad he hadn’t done something in his life. A novel notion in itself, but that was beside the point…because when Mac did whip his finger away, he replaced it with his mouth. It was a triple whammy slam of skin on skin, chest to chest, crushed beneath hard heat. Panther hips tilted just so by the kiss laying waste to his lips. Every bit as toe-tingling as their first, in the bath but better, because Mac instigated it. This, while skimming his palms along the sensitive underside of Joe’s arms, heading toward his wrists; straining at the reassuring strength of their bonds.

When Mac did snatch his mouth away, leaving Joe’s lips bereft, it was merely to smudge it across his jaw to fasten at his neck. A small mewl slipped free when the bloom of a bruise began prickling to the surface; a fierce suction that relented only to start its drugging tug afresh.

“Mac. Please…” Joe didn’t even know what he was pleading for, just…more. Much more…when too much would never be enough.







My Way 11

Hi, please excuse possible mishaps, I’m all out of time…





My Way

13 Mac



“I think it’s about time we set a few boundaries…as I clearly cannae trust you. There’s only one way I’m going to be able to keep you out of trouble. My way. On my terms.” 

A split-second decision, culled from instinct, Mac had fuck-all else to curtail the cannonball that was Joe Fitzgerald. Sagacity, logic, ration and reason? Rendered useless in the face of…that face, and the bloody brain residing behind it. 

In that mind-boggling moment when his lips had crashed against Joe’s, it became obvious that all Mac’s options had been whittled to one. A fact that cut a swathe through an arsenal of meticulously honed tactics and tossed clinical efficiency to the wind, in favour of just…winging it. It was clear that securing control in this most singular of situations lay in utilizing the weapons Joe claimed to want—not enough of course, never that—Mac’s rival was too ruthless, all-consuming.

His lesser foes were the enemy within; the supplementary suppliers who’d secured Mac’s services. They’d have to be taken out too, in order to protect Joe from them. Scuppering career capsizing plots would be a piece of cake compared to that. F’fucksakes. Mac would have to retire after this. He’d never be able to look at himself in the mirror again after whoring himself out to win this war. For it was a war of wills they were engaged in; one he fully intended to win. Victory would ensue, whatever it cost him.

As it sank into this quicksand of insanity, a last gasp of rational thought argued that Mac was being paid to safeguard his client/career but he sure as hell wasnae selling himself. He wanted Joe, and Mac was having him. Despite his contract, not as a battle tactic to secure its fulfillment. If doing so—doing Joe—ensured his future along the way? Well, that would be…expedient. Killing two birds with one stone.

Quite how Mac made the step from said stone to standing over a naked Joe, bound to his bed, would have to be unravelled at a later date. It was impossible to wonder at the whys and wherefores while gazing at the extravagant gifts laid before him. Long lean limbs, carved from alabaster, gleaming in the shadowy alcove. Dusk was flirting with the day in the lazy light filtering through the casement window. Its languid caress made Joe’s skin look luminous, glowing ghostly pale on clotted cream sheets. What the fuck? 

Parts of Mac forever suppressed—crushed by council estate conformity and his escape route from it—were unfurling faster than a fleeing Joe in hot pursuit of a fix. How the hell had he wreaked such havoc on Mac’s scrupulous self-possession? Mac might have ‘contained the situation’, in theory, but he couldnae command his own mind, let alone methods. 

Nevertheless, Mac had assumed control of the uncontrollable, which was…more than anyone else could claim? F’chrissakes. He’d be arguing that my dad’s bigger than yours next. With himself. Bullshit. 

‘Bare Facts’: Colonel John A. Gavin (Military Review, Volume 33).

A Commander… ‘must know how to employ his company tactically and utilize all weapons effectively’.  

Mac’s Krav Maga blackbelt might come in useful for strapping Joe to a stable surface but his trusty blade, feet, and fists were bloody useless. Tactical expertise it was, then. In this most particular of battles the weapons best suited to purpose were, it seemed: Mac’s eyes, hips and arse. 

It would be most unprofessional, nay criminal, not to utilize them to their utmost. Fuck, I want to take him here, now; ruin him for every fucking ‘friend’ on the other end of a phone. Mac couldnae recall ever wanting someone, rather than something, with such single-minded ferocity. Mebbe because he had not. Mac conducted his sex-life with much the efficiency of his job. Not a very edifying fact, but essential when self-preservation was paramount. He wasnae cruel in this, he selected his partners as carefully as his suits; they were cut from the same cloth. Men who craved precisely what Mac was tailored to provide. 

Until now. He knew damn well that he was in grave danger of losing everything he valued. His reputation, first and foremost, which was everything in Mac’s world. His very life counted on it, to an extent. A loss less brutal than living with the fact he’d lost his bitterest battle of all, with himself…and yet, Joe had been correct. The part of Mac that thrilled to testi— besting his endurance levels was licking its lips in anticipation of this whole fucking fiasco. They were as bad as each other. Hell bent on self-destruction while calling it a triumph over Christ knows what. Adversity? Authority? Censure? Or the self they were so dead set on annihilating? ‘Mac’ had been carved from the icy knot of fear forever crouched in Kyle McCafferty’s guts.

How he ached for all those eternal eyes promised; luring him in with a hunger as indiscriminate as it was insatiable. Satisfying that might prove the greatest challenge of Mac’s career…and the most gratifying on Earth. 

Keeping Joe shackled to the bed until Monday wasnae a bad idea, just a bit inconvenient. Unless Mac intended to practise the missionary position for the next two days, which he sure as hell-no did not. A Joe on the precipice of pleasure was likely the point at which that egregious appetite was Mac’s most potent weapon. He’d turn holding Joe there into an art-form, if that would achieve their ends. Whatever it took, Mac intended to bring it to the table. 

It wouldnae do to waste a hard-earned belt…


When Mac sank down onto the chair, he couldnae help but grin when he saw the expression on Joe’s face; which somehow pulled off both baffled and bereft. Those eyes would have swallowed Mac whole if he’d been standing beside the bed. 

In truth, he just wanted to remove his boots without hopping about trying to tug them off, but Joe appeared to interpret it as a dastardly torture technique. Starring himself, tethered for fucknows how long, waiting for Mac to deign to…? Who knew? Fathoming that might take some time… 

Far longer than a weekend…but that was beside the point. Christ, Mac would combust, he’d lost his mind holding out for this long. Five hours, or thereabouts? It felt like forever.  After placing his boots beside the chair, Mac leaned back to drink in the luminous beauty of the man he intended to claim as his own…later. 

Partly to prove he meant business, but mostly because his skin was screaming, Mac shrugged his shirt off as he stood up. Fuck. Joe’s entire expression transformed; from aghast to anticipatory in a heartbeat. Obsidian eyes gleaming as glassy as the surface of a moonlit lake. Pincushion lips parted to allow the tip of Joe’s tongue to flicker—unconsciously, it seemed—across the lower one.

Nevertheless…if you do want me… ” Mac paused, just as someone had in the bath: ‘Are you sure you don’t want to come. In?’  Before continuing, “To stay. Two conditions and I’ve made both more than clear. My Way. On my terms.” 

Joe’s answer was every bit as unexpected as his earlier response. Despite being identical. Blind-sided at every turn, and the miscreant was now bound to his own bloody bed.


Okay? That’s it? No ‘Meanie’ slurs?” Mac enquired, lifting a lofty brow.

“No. I want you…to stay. So, okay.” 

Until I’ve got what I want…then you won’t know what’s hit you.

Mac heard the unspoken part as clearly as if Joe had uttered it aloud. The only uncertainty was whether Joe knew it had been heard and understood. Mac suspected not. A person as proficient at manipulation as Joe—coupled with the fact he’d grown accustomed to lackeys doing their utmost to please and appease him—was rarely called upon to question their own powers of persuasion.  

Nevertheless, Mac had heard it. Joe remaining none the wiser would be fortuitous. Mac was forewarned and thus forearmed, which put him at an advantage. F’chrissakes…he wasnae Wallace planning the battle of Stirling Bridge. Mac had one incorrigible creature to conquer, not Longshanks and an entire army. Longshanks? Shortarse. Joe had that bastard beat by about three inches.

“Okay…” Mac confirmed, dragging in a deep breath. He was so tightly wound, something might snap.

If he managed to stick to his plan—battle tactics: if persisting in vainglorious allegories—it would be a bloody miracle. Reaching out, Mac finally allowed his fingers to alight upon the skin he’d scarce been able to refrain from touching for…ever, would do fine.

A soft noise sounded in Joe’s throat, so enchanting Mac almost abandoned his goddamn plan before it began and fell upon him like a wolf in a feeding frenzy. He did not. 

Instead, Mac gritted his teeth and began trailing featherlight fingertips down the centre of Joe’s chest, ignoring the flames licking up his own arm as they skimmed cool porcelain. Joe shivered but bit down on his bottom lip; eyes flaring unfeasibly wide as he sucked in a sharp breath. When Mac’s torturous trail reached the dip of Joe’s belly button, he swirled a slow circle around it before ghosting along the trickle of hair leading to a prize too tempting to resist…and whipped his hand away. 

A soft whimper slipped free but Joe didn’t protest, clearly determined to endure whatever was meted out…or wasn’t. In this, he was mistaken. A sucker-punch, at last. 

Mac had no intention of stopping. He’d barely begun…





My Way 10


I’m so I’ve been so tardy…it’s been a busy weekend. I hope that yours treated you well.❤️




My Way




12  Joe



When Mac stood up, Joe’s eyeballs all-but plopped in the bath for a bob-about. Blimey, no wonder he’d looked so uncomfy. Immaculately cut worsted cloth straining across a stonking boner…inches from Joe’s face. If it were not for the bad-ass bubbles, the impact of this would’ve been as blatant as it was…buoyant. 

Crikey, I have a room with a view, all of a sudden…deluxe, at that.”

Well really…who on Earth could ignore that without comment? Joe knew not, but they sure as strewth weren’t sitting in his bath being blinded by a far from Wee Willie Winkie. Eye-watering, it was. As huge as it was hard. It sure looked a helluva lot glad to be gay to Joe. Whether Mac was…up for proclaiming that loud and proud, or not. A pertinent part of him sure was.  

Blimey, with a bitalot o’luck Joe might just find himself choking on his own size-queen quip. He did not utter that aloud, but earning bad-ass points for good behaviour sure didn’t look a very lot likely if the one Mac coshed him with was indicative. As hot as hell it was, too. Joe might have mentioned this. Or words to that effect, honesty being the tralala… 

“Joe…” Mac warned, fixing him with a green so glinty it should be banned near bath water. Chucking the toaster into it would p’raps have felt similar. Taserman strikes again. It was pure sex. As impure as ’twas potent. Just like Mac…lust on legs. Lithe, long legs…tautly muscled thighs straining against tailoring as sleek and sharp as its wearer. Joe’s entire field of vision was filled with taut ’n’ tight ’n’ turgid.

This was wish fulfillment beyond Joe’s wildest doh. P’raps not…but still as sublime as the fact Mac was busting his britches. Joe was naked. It was hard not to hope for a correlation between the two.

“Are you sure you don’t want to come. In? You’ve already come out, by the looks of it.” Loud and very clear…that Mac dressed to the left.

“Joe, I am not here to share your bath.”

“Just my bed,” Joe sighed, a mite perplexed, it must be admitted. He had no idea how Mac could say that with a straight face, all things considered. It was very impressive. So was his expression. P-p-p-poker face par excellence

It was a miracle Joe didn’t start mum-mum-mum-mah-ing, at the very least, but that possibly wouldn’t aid his endeavours to secure himself a bad-ass in his bath. Or, in anywhere else at all, so he figured that finding out why would be his best bet. If Mac wanted—but didn’t want to—there must be a reason. If not to refute (possibly impossible) then to work on dissuading him of.

“Cos it’s not professional or, cos I’m junkie scum..?” 

“I have never shagged a client,” Mac stated. Firmly. “Don’t you dare let the bastards convince you of that.” His glittery glare was almost as flammable as the fact he grasped a fistful of Joe’s hair and yanked. Hard. Ooh…mean ‘n’ masterful t’boot. Is he hell-bent on boiling the bath water? 

Joe couldn’t help but suspect Mac knew damn well what he was doing. His mouth might unleash ‘no’ on a loop but the bad-ass blighter had an uncanny knack for locating buttons he outright refused to press…while bodging away with glinty glee.

“You’re sacked then,” Joe shrugged. Sorted. “It’s too late…” His attempt to muster up a smile was…tragic. Not in the thespianic sense, he’d be booed offstage. It was just crap. 

After tugging that rug from beneath Joe’s feet by pointing out he wasn’t coughing up for Mac’s services, the scoundrel slammed his lids shut, stealing away the sight of those glorious greens. Ah well, every cloud an’ all that… As quick-as-a-flash Mac couldn’t see, Joe shot out a hand, clasped the back of his head and tugged. Hard. There was a lot of that about.

Joe may have launched a stealth attack but Mac was the most lethal mo-fo-foe on Earth, or thereabouts. As strong as he was sharp; he could have stopped Joe from crashing their lips together. He did not.

 But strewth…stone the crows ‘n’ crikey… Joe might’ve done the mouth mashing, but that didn’t prepare him for the staggering bolt of white-hot want that blitzed his body. Bedazzling his brain. It felt akin to standing onstage as the trapdoor abruptly gave way beneath his feet; such was the jolt to Joe’s lackadaisical system. 

Oh, those lips…soft, sultry, lush. For one breath-snatching, soul-searing snatch of time…it stopped. There was nothing but those lips, the scent filling Joe’s head, the hand still clutching his hair, holding him there now as Mac laid waste to his mouth. It might’ve lasted a fraction of a second or forever. It was...everything, encapsulated in a kiss. Far too perfect to be permissible.

Thus, it was with a guttural groan that Mac’s grip relented and he started trying to straighten up. ‘Trying’? Joe was somehow sure that Mac subscribed to the ‘do or do not, there is no try‘ school of Mcbadass mastery. So, Joe increased the pressure of the palm clamped to Mac’s nape, stilling him. For an abated breath, Mac froze…then…the fingers still tangled in Joe hair started to unfurl. Until they were supporting his head—rather than steering it—as Mac unleashed a devastating assault of tongue, lips, teeth. Taking even as he gave…more, so much more. Every inch of Joe ached to be crushed beneath hard-packed muscle, his skin screaming for Mac’s touch but he was stuck in the bath. He could scarce move, let alone struggle to his feet without shattering the moment or breaking the kiss.

“Fuck…” Mac gasped, jerking his head back with a snap so abrupt Joe was left swallowing air. “Stand up…” 

Joe scrambled to do as he’d been bid, surging from the water with a schlepping splash. He’d scarce found his footing before his arm was grasped and lifted aloft for Mac to duck beneath it and hoist Joe over one shoulder as if he were weightless.

“Keep your elbows in…” the scoundrel instructed, turning to stride from the room. “Fuck knows how we’ll manage those steps, but at least you’re conscious this time,” he muttered, setting off at a pace so impressive it suggested he’d ‘manage’ every bit as fine as Joe’s view on proceedings. A rhythmic bunching of buns that propelled Mac up the rickety staircase. Upon alighting at the top, he headed straight for the bed and tossed his holdall to the floor before bending to shrug Joe onto the sheets he’d deemed acceptable. When Mac righted himself, he stood, sweeping a blazing gaze down Joe’s body in a scorch akin to being blow-torched, inch-by-incendiary-inch as his skin sizzled in its wake.

“What am I going to do with you…?” Mac wondered aloud, folding his arms and narrowing those eyes to flinty slits of green. 

It sounded like a rhetorical question, so Joe kept schtum. As long as Mac did something, he couldn’t care less, which was a wee bit desperate but Joe damn well was. With a rabid intensity as insistent as his more customary cravings, at that. P’raps his overwrought system had got them in a muddle? Joe’s cock sure didn’t look confused. The sight looming over him was, for once, more seductive than Joe’s stash. Its promise…every bit as potent.  

Mac himself hadn’t promised Joe bugger-all, o’course, but that was beside the point. The bad-ass might’ve been hewn from Highland graniteor sculpted from Grampian marbleby a master craftsman intent on driving Joe t’distraction. Or demented, but that ship had looong since sailed. 

Plush lips twerked in a smile so dark it made Joe’s toes scrunch into the covers. He watched, rapt, as Mac raised his left hand and started tugging on the knot of that incongruous slash of scarlet binding his right wrist. How Joe hoped it wouldn’t wind up wrapped ’round his head, instead. He didn’t want to miss a moment of whatever might ensue, even to blink. When Mac was done unpicking, he flicked his gaze to Joe’s face while unwinding the scrap of cloth, a devilish smirk dancing in those glinty greens. So transfixed was he, Joe’s wrist had been snatched up while he was still wondering if he was about to be blinded. By the glint or a red bandana. First. Phew. 

“I think it’s time we set a few boundaries…as I clearly cannae trust you. There’s only one way I’ll be able to keep you out of trouble. My way. On my terms.” Mac declared, every word dripping dark intent. Once satisfied that his new knot would hold, the scoundrel yanked the arm he’d bound above Joe’s head with a swift tug on the trailing end of the bandana. By the time that had been secured to the brass bedstead, Joe was so hard his cock was quivering, his balls drawn so tight he could barely breathe when he remembered to bother.

“You have the hungriest eyes I’ve ever seen in my goddamn life…” The bad-ass informed him when Joe chanced a hopeful glance at Mac’s other hand. “Greedy.”

As long as Joe was fed the seconds it seemed fortune might just favour him with, he wasn’t fussed how gluttonous it made him. Mac’s left arm was similarly adorned but the red-rag-to-a-bull bandana had been too eye-catching to register the not-so matching black one at first. It had no sooner slithered free with a swift swiiip, than Joe’s right arm was secured to the bedstead. “Now you’re safe. I’m quite inclined to keep you there ’til we leave on Monday,” he sighed. Lavishly.

Joe couldn’t hold his tongue any longer, his head was about to explode. His skin felt like a six-foot shriek. 


Please? You’ve sacked me. Along with the right to request fuck-all…” 

“You said I couldn’t sack you,” Joe huffed.

“Well, there you go…proof that I endeavour to be accommodating.” Smirked with a nonchalant shrug. Oooh. After unleashing that gem, Mac turned to glide over to the chair and parked his baddest-ass on it with a demonic grin. Nooo…is he stopping for smoke break? 

Joe expelled a looong breath when Mac bent to tug on his boots, yanking them off to place them precisely side by side at his feet. His fringe had fallen forwards in the interim so, when Mac straightened up, it was to glower at Joe through fronds of hair, grazing the length of his body like ghostly fingertips as he lay, helpless. Oh dear. Mac hadn’t even touched him elsewhere, but Joe’s blood was all-but fizzing in his veins as his skin crackled static.

In one smooth melody of motion, Mac rose to his feet, shrugging his shirt off. It fell to the floor, unheeded. Joe’s jaw may have followed suit, if he hadn’t been flat on his back; Mac’s torso was as taut ‘n’ tight as the muscle cording his sinewy arms. In the hazy half-light he might’ve been dipped in molten bronze for Joe’s delectation…but Mac wasn’t meant for him. Joe had never done a damn thing to deserve this. Quite the contrary.

“Nevertheless…If you do want me. To stay. Two conditions and I’ve made both more than clear. My Way. On My Terms,” Mac rasped, prowling toward the bed.





My Way 9

My Way

11 Mac



“’Kay, I just need to scribble something down first…” Joe insisted, upon being prompted bathwards. Quibbling for the hell of it? It seemed not, because he promptly sprang up and scurried off whippet-quick. Christ, he’d been semi-conscious an hour ago but then… a swift snort sure as hell didn’t cut it for long when smack cravings clamoured for their customary delivery. Not least over such a prolonged period, in quantities that should have ensured Joe’s membership of the infamous 27 Club. If only by surviving on borrowed time until his (birthday) card came through...according to Vince.

Three years later…he’d defied the odds. And the opinion of everyone who’d ever offered it, apparently. Fucknows how. For every statistic there’s a Keith Richards cocking a snook to decency? Moreover, the wily old cat had dodged his dues for so long he’d become celebrated for it. There was, literally, only one Keef. Joe had another forty-odd years to serve before the press stopped baying for his blood and he became a legend for his lifetime. Rather than Junkie Joe, poster boy for moral outrage.

So swiftly did he scarper, Mac had to shift himself sharpish to follow in Joe’s wake when he sped off upstairs, heading straight for the attic. He’d already dropped to his knees by the time Mac entered, and was scrabbling amongst the notebooks scattered across the floor, searching for…a dog-eared diary, bound in blue, apparently. Springing back to his feet, Joe stood, head swiveling from side-to-side, meerkat style, before pouncing on a pen amidst the pile of coins, trinkets and clutter on his desk.

It appeared that Joe had forgotten Mac’s existence when he folded himself into the chair he’d once slept in and started scribbling away, hand flowing across the page in a spidery scrawl. Every now and again he’d pause to ruthlessly score out a word, or a whole line, before continuing apace. The ferocity of Joe’s focus and the fluidity of the words that spewed forth were….startling. Astounding, when the former had seemed improbable, at best. The latter was staggering, full stop. Rather than stand gaping, Mac figured that he might as well go and run Joe’s bath while he was busy not rustling up a cunning plan, and so absorbed he was probably about as safe as he’d ever be, for two minutes.

Mac made for the bathroom he’d used, rather than the en-suite Joe had fled to for his fix. After turning on the taps, he poured in a dollop of blue Imperial Leather bubble bath that promised a ‘Sea of Tranquility’ in your tub. Cussons sure as shit wouldnae be approaching Joe to be face of their next advertising campaign any time soon.

Joe didn’t actually smell as unsavoury as Mac had implied; a bit stale in a smack-sweat way but not rank. It was more that—oh, f’chrissakes. Mac just had an absurd urge to strip away the filth tainting his very name. Every insult ever dealt him—deserved or not—undoubtedly the clincher that proved Mac had lost his goddamn mind. A few hours with Joe and his ‘McBad-ass’ had turned into John the bloody Baptist.

When Mac returned to the attic it was to find Joe still sitting exactly where he’d been left but now strumming an acoustic guitar, crooning to himself. The guitar had been propped against the arm of the chair, so chances were, he’d just lifted it into his lap. Mac stood in the doorway, unwilling, or unable, to disturb him when the melody rippling from Joe’s fingers was so very…lovely. His voice was too soft to make out the lyrics but it’s bittersweet lilt was so heartfelt it yearned; tugging on Mac’s deepest, darkest desires. Long dead and buried; snuffed out of existence as…inexpedient. What the fuck are you prattling on about, yer tosser? Okay…he was now talking to himself. In the third person. Mac could clearly do with a drink. Meanwhile, the bath would overflow if he didn’t shift his arse, sharpish.

Joe didnae seem to have noticed he’d ever left, or returned, so Mac left him to it and headed downstairs to stave off a flood. It had been a wee while since he’d downloaded some…recent music, Mac had to admit (if not to Vince) so he’d never—knowingly—heard Joe’s music before. It had crossed his mind to download an album or two for the drive to the Cotswolds, but he’d been contrarily…resistant to the idea. Hadnae wanted to appear as if he cared a toss one way or the other who the fuck ‘Joe Fitzgerald’ was. Apart from a client Mac was being paid to protect. Why risk it, when the only fortuitous outcome would’ve been utter indifference to Joe’s output? It felt preferable not to know he loathed it in advance…but even worse (he’d decided) was that he’d wind up impressed—disarmed—by the talent even Joe’s harshest critics could only berate him for ‘abusing’.  A prudent precaution, Mac had assured himself. Now? He just felt pathetic. 

He had to get on top of—f’fucksakes—get to grips with this goddamn gig. He’d never been anything less than precise. Professional. Clinically efficient. Brutal, if need be. Mac wasnae a sadist…but he’d never once flinched from getting a job done. No matter what that entailed.

 Everything he had done since stepping through Joe’s front door? Was not only dangerous, it was a ticking time bomb that would detonate in Mac’s face. One way or another.

“Hiya…” Joe’s halo of hair and the black holes into which Mac’s sanity had been sucked, peered around the side of the bathroom door. The water tank was wheezing as it refilled, pipes clanking in the way of old homes, but that was no excuse: he still hadn’t heard Joe descend the stairs. Mac couldn’t even keep him safe in his own house, let alone bloody London. He should ring Vince, immediately. Quit, having quite forgotten the vasectomy he’d booked…and the pressing matter that required his immediate attention. In Abu Dhabi. Mac might be one hundred percent gay but for all Vince knew? He could have a harem of women…in the Arab Emirates. Obviously.

“Y’okay?” he asked, searching those eyes for signs of distress. 

“I didn’t. So, you needn’t stab me with the flinty glint.”

Stab you with the flinty glint?” Mac spluttered.

“Ha…you told me to tell the truth. It feels as if you’re examining my entrails when you look at me like that,” Joe grinned, before glancing at the bath with a surprise that suggested it was a sudden apparition. “Oh, did you run that for me?

“Well, you were busy, so I figured I might as well make myself useful,” Mac muttered. 

“Ooh, my very own bad-ass bubble bath. See, another oxymoron. You are the most incongruous scoundrel I’ve ever met, Mr Mac.”

“And you are the most incorrigible, so I reckon we’re quits. Get your arse in it, then.”

Okaay. Thanks Mac, it does look very lovely. You might want to turn around for a mo, I’d hate to offend your sensibilities,” Joe smirked.

“Since when?” Mac grunted, but turned around with a sigh that expressed ‘whatever’ but couldnae be further from the truth he’d insisted on. A fact that would become way too apparent by the time Joe was seated. 

Mac stood, staring at a clotted cream wall, listening to the soft sound of cloth dropping to the floor, the rasp of a zipper, the scratchy rustle of denim. Trying to blank the visuals his (belatedly) vigilant brain was all-too keen on providing. 

Ahhh…” Meanwhile, the accompanying soundtrack had segued into soft porn. The deep squeak of a foot smudging across ceramic preceded the schlepping splash of a body being lowered into the bath with a lurid hmm of contentment. Swiftly followed by a purr of pleasure as the plink of water subsided. The indications of all such utterances went without saying. Half-crippled by immaculate tailoring, Mac semi-turned to park himself on the loo seat with a wince.

“Y’okay?”  Joe wondered, that dark gaze aglint with devilry.

“Aye, why?” 

“You look, a mite…uncomfy.” Joe ‘noted’, pinning on a grimace. “Those strides will do you a mischief. They are superb though…the back view was worth its Saville Row weight in gold…even before—”

“Thank you for your sartorial wisdom,” Mac cut in. “I’ll wash your mouth out with the soap in a minute.”

“My mum used to threaten that too…but she did wash my back.”

“I am not washing your back,” Mac snorted.

“Meanie,” he pouted. Oh hell… “Would you be so kind as to pass me the shampoo, if it’s not too much trouble, then. Unless you’d prefer me to stand up and fetch it m’self…” Joe pointed to the window sill behind Mac, upon which sat a bottle of Sheer Blonde shampoo. Blowing out a long suffering sigh, Mac rose to his feet to reach for it. Belatedly realising what was now too blatant to deny. Staring Joe full in the face. Shit. Perhaps…he’d have the common decency not to pass comment?

“Crikey, I have a room with a view, all of a sudden…deluxe, at that.” 

The grin was worse. 

“Joe…” Mac glared through the overhanging strands of fringe stuck to his forehead.

“Mac…that glower? Is more than a mite counterproductive, just sayin’…honesty being the order of the day, n’all. You might start regretting you requested that. Just a thought,” Joe’s shrug was as airy as his words. His smile? As serene as it was satanic. Impossible? True.

Start?” Mac spluttered.

“Are you sure you don’t want to come. In? You’ve already come out, by the looks of it.”

How the hell had Joe managed to squeeze three double-entendres into one sentence? Without so much as pause for thought…‘talented’? The monster was bloody brilliant. 

“Joe, I am not here to share your bath,” Mac stated. Emphatically.

“Just my bed…” It was too soft to sound snide. 

“You know why…” Mac sucked a sharp breath in—and forced a travesty out—through clenched teeth. “Joe…No.” 

“Cos it’s unprofessional, or cos I’m junkie scum?”

“I have never shagged a client.” That answered both questions but the latter was a fallacy that needed quashing at all costs. Mac grasped a fistful of fluffy hair and tugged Joe’s head back. “Don’t you dare let the bastards convince you of that,“ he growled.

“You’re sacked then,” Joe’s lips quirked alongside a small shrug. “It’s too late…” 

The sorrow that filled bottomless brown was decimating. Slamming his lids shut, Mac stated the flaw in that cunning plan. “You can’t sack me, you’re not footing the bill…”

He barely felt the stirring of the air before his nape was clasped and Mac’s mouth smashed down onto lips as breath-snatching as the lust that scorched through his veins. Shattering every last shred of restraint, sweeping aside all his best intentions. His worst ones? Had been obliterated in that heart-stopping moment when pinprick pupils skewered Mac’s…pride.

The truth, or as near as dammit. 

Being the order of the day an’ all…’





My Way 8

Hiya, I hope you had a great weekend. 🥰 Here’s part 8, as promised…


My Way

10 Joe




“What’s tickled you, Mr McBadass?” Joe blinked, befuddled when Mac let rip a sudden snort of laughter. 

“Nothing…” he groaned, shaking his head. The more he tried to suppress it, the more his shoulders quaked.

Ooh, why do folk even bother saying that? It was most frustrating. If they were that particular about keeping their jollies to themselves, then why not just say ‘mind your own bloomin business, you pokey-nosed parker’? Nothing? Nothing ain’t never nothing; it’s impossible to think nothing. It’s a contradiction in terms…Mac had to be thinking something, to find it funny.. 

Nothing = No thinking = Doesnae incite a lot of titters.

Joe’s tongue was a smidge too busy squatting like a blubbery beached whale to wrap around so many syllables. All floppy ‘n’ flaccid. The same could not be said for Joe’s cock. That scamp had scarce had a sit down since the bad-ass came-a-calling.

“Fibber.” There. A tangle-free summation of the situation. Excellent.

“It was merely a fleeting thought…” Mac chuckled.

“So it was something, not ‘nothing’ at all…make your mind up. I’ve got a bee in my barnet now and the whale will be miffed.”

“Where’d you get the whale from?” Mac asked, looking at Joe as if he was a lunatic.

“Where d’think I got it from, you nutter…the Gobi Desert?” They’d sent Joe a madman. “Stop changing the subject. You still haven’t told me what was so snickersome.”

“Christ, you never let anything go, do you?” he groaned.

“Nope. So y’might as well cough up. Call it a time-saving tip,” Joe advised.

“F’fucksakes,” Mac sighed. “When Vince—”


“My Agent. When Vince offered me the gig, he rather portentously announced your name. To which I—in my infinite wisdom—retorted: ‘Who the fuck is Joe Fitzgerald?’ An enquiry that suddenly struck me as the most ridiculous sentence I’d ever uttered.” Mac rolled his eyes with another fulsome sigh. “I sure as hell know now.” 

“Google could’ve saved you a drive…“ 

“It didn’t…as you can see,” Mac smirked.

“I would’ve never pegged you as a masochist. As well.” 

“I prefer to think of it as being partial to a challenge…” the scoundrel corrected him.

“Hm…” Joe narrowed his eyes to a suspicious squint. “I reckon you’d clean up in one of those Japanese endurance shows…” 

“Same difference,” Mac shrugged. If he believed that, Joe had a bridge going cheap.

Same difference. Thinking nothing. You’re full of contradictions that cancel one another out…” Joe noted.

Deflections that tripped from Mac’s lips whenever Joe came close to scratching that Teflon surface. Rather than respond, those glinty greens regarded him with a wolfish gleam beyond a sly as a fox squinch. If that double whammy was the summit of Mac’s zoomorphic talents, Joe might just get a wink o’sleep. He wouldn’t have to watch ol’ panther hips slink across the room to get into the bloomin bed for a start. The bed? Joe’s bed. 

In truth (still being the order of the day an’ all), if it could be classed as a predator, Mac prob’ly had it covered. Telling him that would no doubt inspire a sharky smirk of satisfaction, so Joe didn’t. A secret truth wasn’t a fib. On that particular subject…

“Half o’the stuff you read was so embellished I barely remember being there. If I’m so much as papped mid-blink, it’s ‘Junkie-Joe out on a bender again’”

“And the other half…?” Mac arched a lofty eyebrow. 

“Is perhaps…a tad true,” he confessed.

“In the ‘tad pregnant’ sort of sense? You do seem to…blink rather regularly,” Mac snickered.

“Shurrup. It’s a good job I have you to ensure I keep my blinks to myself then, isn’t it?” Joe sniffed.

“Ah, I can only do that if you allow me to insert the matchsticks…” Mr Snake-In-The-Grass asserted.

“Humph. That doesn’t sound very fun. It would be far more efficient to take my mind off blinking. That would work a treat.” 

“And how, pray tell, might I achieve this miracle?” The scoundrel’s sagacity had acquired McYoda gravitas by this point.

“One might achieve this miracle more easily than one suspects, Mr Mac, if one were so inclined.“

“You are the most manipulative monster I’ve ever met, Mr Fitzgerald.”

“And you are the most slippery scoundrel on Earth.” Joe parried. “Stalemate sucks rocks.”

“Speaking of which…you could do with a bath.” Mac informed him. 

“Damn cheek, I had one!” 

“Was there snow on the ground?” Snape-on-Steroids enquired.

“I can’t remember,” Joe admitted. “Do I have to?”

“No…let’s just say, it would be an act of generosity.” Mac smirked.

“Crikey, when you go visiting, do you run your finger across the mantelpiece and open the windows, too?”

“Only if it stinks,” the scoundrel snorted.

“Oooh. Fine.” Joe huffed. “This is like having my mum come to stay. You’ll be feeding me up next.” 

“It has crossed my mind. When did you last eat?”

“I had some crunchy-nutters earlier, I’m not hungry. Not for food, at least…” 

Quelle surprise.” If Mac-the-knife’s blade was as sharp as his snark, no wonder he’d been dubbed the meanest mo-fo on earth. Or thereabouts.

“D’you intend to park yourself on the loo seat while I’m taking a bath too?” Joe asked, a mite curious to know if he’d be allowed to do anything on his lonesome.

“I hadn’t thought beyond the reek…odd that. Surely you don’t need another fix, already?”

“Not particularly, but I wouldn’t say ‘no’ to one.” This truth-telling lark was getting out of hand. “It was just a question.”

“Do I need to sit there? Straight up, don’t forget.” Mac speared him with a hawkish stare. 

“Oh bugger. Probably. Happy?” Joe huffed.

“No. I’d be ‘happy’ if you’d said ‘no, I’m alright for a bit, thanks’, but aye, I’m glad you were honest. Can you stand up yet?”

“‘Course I can, I’m not a lightweight.”

“C’mon then,” Mac instructed, uncrossing his legs and clasping the arms of the chair to lever himself to his feet. The man was a melody of movement, as potent as ’twas predatory. 

“‘Kay, I just need to scribble something down first.” Joe had felt fit for nought but nodding-off, half an hour ago. Now he sprang from his seat, almost as swift as the words babbling through his brain. Blimey... He stood, blinking for a mo, a bit bewildered. His head had been bereft of words for so long, he’d almost forgotten how it felt. How exhilarating it was when they flowed, like a ripple of ribbon in the wind. The last few—fucknows—had been a wasteland. An arid desert; desolate, parched of poetry. 

Then ol’ panther hips came prowling in, as sinuous as y’please with his serpentine spine and lickety-spit wit….and there was a bloomin’ blizzard afoot. A snowstorm of simile, metaphor and rhyme. Joe could scarce see beyond it…or the surefire cause, boiling his blood.

Mr McBad-ass ‘n’ Dangerous to Joe. 




My Way 7

My Way


9 Mac



When Mac emerged from the bathroom, it was to find himself staring at an empty landing. Shit. Had Joe gone back up to the attic…or downstairs?

“Joe!” No answer came the reply. The former seemed most likely, so Mac took the rickety steps three at a time and found…fuck all. Gone for a smoke in the study? Off Mac set, skidding down two staircases to the detritus strewn hallway. Joe wasnae in the study, kitchen, or anybloodywhere else on the ground floor. “Joe! Where the hell are you?” 

Mac might not know where Joe was, but knew damn well what the miscreant was up to.  The rooms leading off the landing seemed the most likely prospects; the ones he’d claimed were just ‘full of stuff’. If Joe wasnae to be located there—then where had he shot off to—in the sliver of time it took Mac to empty his bloody bladder?

“JOE!” His former bedroom seemed Mac’s best bet, so he stuck his head around the next two doors, slightly ajar, which were, indeed, full of fucknowswhat, but no Joe. The third housed a bed, buried beneath a mountain of clothes and yet more crap, but no occupant.

There was, however, a second door in the corner, which was the only one he’d come across so far that was shut. It was probably a closet—the least natural habitat of the lesser-spotted Joe, on irony grounds alone—but Mac was short on options. “Joe!” he hollered for about the fifth time, yanking on the handle. Nada. Locked. “JOE! F’FUCKSAKES! Joe, are yer in there?” Stupid question. Of course he was…it was bolted on the inside. Mac slammed his palm on it in frustration, “Let me in!” 

“Come in…” Joe’s sing-song voice sighed. 

At least he’s alive, but strewth, give me strength… “‘Come in’, f’chrissakes,” Mac muttered to himself, blowing out a looong breath. “Joe! What yer doin’ in there?” Cretinous question; the sequel. “Open this bloody door! NOW!” Mac snarled, hammering the wood with the side of his fist.

“I’m on the looo.” A likely story. “Macass?” ‘Macass’? For the love of all things unholy. Who the hell else would it be?

Mac wondered whether his shoulder would suffice—there being no keyhole—which tended to indicate a perfunctory ‘I’m in the loo’ catch. Or, whether he’d be forced to kick the damn thing down. At least he was wearing boots, kickboxing proficiency or no…

The door juddered, but held against the slam of Mac’s sole. The splintering that accompanied the second side kick sounded promising…one more and the lock surrendered, allowing the door to swing wide with a crash. Revealing the slumped-on-the-bog body Mac was supposed to be guarding. He wasn’t sure whether he was more pissed with Joe, or himself. Aye, he damn well was. Only one of them had failed to live up to their billing. 

When the hell had Mac become so lame-brained? Or allowed himself to be lulled into a false sense of security? Ever. Not least by the breeze off a pair of bloody eyelashes. Albeit, aided and abetted by Joe’s apparently right-as-rain frame of mind and its focus on… Mac’s arse, or the appetite of his own. Of course, Joe would have been beset by cravings—he was awake—but he hadnae seemed wracked by withdrawal. Had he simply seized the first opportunity, or had something specific triggered Joe’s flight? Later. 

“C’mon, get up,” he sighed, clasping a wiry bicep. Joe just aimed a smudgy smile Mac’s way as pinprick pupils made an effort to target his face. Dragging on a rag-doll arm proved as pointless as Joe was impervious to instruction. So, Mac grasped gangly wrists and hauled hard, before ducking beneath an armpit. Bracing himself, Mac straightened up with his semi-conscious cargo draped over one shoulder.

The staircase was too narrow to cart the miscreant to his sanctuary…and the bed beyond the bathroom was covered in crap. The study armchair was about Mac’s best bet. Joe would be upright, in case he threw up after being carried...if  he made it that far without barfing down Mac’s back. Splendid. There was so much Joe, his fingers would probably trickle down each step on their way. It was like trying to wrangle a deckchair. Joe weighed much the same; there was nothing of him, he was all skin and bone and sharp joints. Fragile.

After advising Joe on the perils of puking, Mac was informed that it wouldnae be ‘a fitting tribute’ to his own backside. Or words to that effect. F’chrissakes. Semi-comatose, and Joe’s mental hard-on was still indefatigable. Good grief, it would be like shafting a stuffed toy giraffe.

“Here. Sit there,” Mac grunted, bending to let Joe slither off into the chair. “Do not move. I’m gonnae fetch you a glass of water. God, I need a smoke,” a litre of Glenfiddich and the aforementioned bucket of coke. 

He should have confiscated Joe’s stash for safekeeping, if only to prove Mac meant business. There’d still be caches secreted in the obvious to most preposterous places, of course: pockets, cisterns, sock drawer, tobacco tins, taped under tables, ad infinitum. Sweeping the house wouldn’t suffice without sniffer dog assistance, in which case the dust in the attic would likely set it off.

The kitchen wasnae desecrated with quite the carnage Mac had expected to assault his sensibilities. There were a distinct lack of pizza boxes, mouldering saucepans piled in the sink and used teabags squatting in rusty puddles. Nor were any black bags disgorging their contents onto the floor, which indicated that Adam had either tidied up a bit, or Joe hadn’t stepped foot in it for six months. After finding a clean-ish mug, Mac filled it with water and returned to the study where Joe had (thank fuck) stayed put. He was still draped over the armchair, all languid limbs and fluid lines, gazing in the general direction of the door through half-mast lids. He did make an effort to focus as Mac approached, cherub lips curving in a dopamine smile. “Sorry…”

“Liar…” Mac’s lips twitched in a smirk, despite himself.

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t…?” Joe offered, with a hint of sheepishness so unexpected, it belied belief.

“I meant the ‘sorry,’” Mac clarified.

“I’m sorry I…made you cross?” Joe amended, blinking up at Mac with pools of liquid midnight. Lethal.

“I am ‘cross’ with me, not you….but sure as shit wish you hadnae scurried off the second you saw your chance. You’ve proved your point, happy?”

“I-that wasn’t…I didn’t—”

“Joe, that’s how it felt.” Mac cut in, before Joe tied his tongue in a knot trying to excuse the inexcusable. “I am not your enemy, I stated that from the off. I’m pissed because my word meant fuck all, was worthless. I asked you to be straight with me…and I wouldnae have stopped you. So, why?”

“I was….scared you might. Wasn’t worthless…’twas…improbable. Mac…?” Bottomless eyes, as imploring as they were implausible. ‘Beguiling’ didn’t begin to cut it. Bewitching

“What?” Mac slammed his own shut and…willed some blood to his brain.

“I am sorry…”

“Aye…and you will be next time…” Mac sighed, shaking his head. “Smoke?” He turned to reach for his cigarettes, avoiding the visual amplification of that plaintive tone. It had, at least, sounded…contrite. 


Mac tugged a couple out, lit one and held it to pincushion lips that parted, wonderment writ large…where else? Bloody things would be the death of one of ’em. At least.

“Like I said, I’m not your enemy,” Mac grunted, sinking into the other seat and lighting his own before dragging in a deep lungful. Ahhh..

It hit Mac that he didn’t have a clue how long ago he’d arrived in the Cotswolds. At fifteen hundred hours. Precisely. Now? It could be five-ish or half-eight, or thereabouts… Mad Hatter’s Tea Party time, for all it felt as if he’d fallen down the rabbit hole. 

In fact, it was probably still fifteen-o-five in London. He’d drive Joe back there on ‘Monday’ and it would still be 15:25 on Saturday afternoon—the same day he’d left—Today. Mac had patently lost the plot. How entirely unsurprising.

‘Who the fuck is Joe Fitzgerald…?Mac spluttered the most indecorous snort when his own shit-for-brains snark made a most unwelcome reappearance. Oh f’chrissakes…