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Stories posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
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Kissing the Dragon - 24. Chastised

Billy and Colin have an early morning heart to heart, and the next day Colin meets Kit for brunch ready for their road trip.

Courtesy of efficient central heating, the stinging in my face cheeks is a testament to the extreme cold weather. At his request, I bring Billy one of his isotonic drinks as he settles in the den. I could do with a tumbler of brandy but my inner voice tells me that to do so at five in the morning would not only be unwise but obscene. Perching next to him on the sofa, I avoid any mention of the detective’s visit, a reminder still aching through my body, and run with the edited version, the sleepless night. Billy knows I suffer sometimes so he accepts this without comment. How I spotted the car is also easy because that part of the story is true.

“And you’re not imagining this?”

“You saw the car pull away. Like a bat out of hell.”

“Because I probably scared the shit out of him.”

To bring him up to speed, I tell him about Bob Grant reporting a car sitting outside the house over the previous weekend, before Denny had even been found. While we sit together, Mr Waldorf comes into the room, jumps up onto Billy’s lap and yawns at him.

“Yuck, tuna breath. So couldn’t have been a reporter then?” he asks eventually, a deduction that even Ben would be proud of.

“Or the police. Denny’s body wasn’t discovered until Sunday morning.”

And then a thought comes to me.

“Was that you being dropped off in the police car tonight?”

He sips on his drink then and, at first, says nothing. For someone who has not slept all night, he appears remarkably perky, which probably means that once his head hits the pillow, he is unlikely to resurface until Sunday afternoon.

“Walking back from Cranborne Heath—the closest the late bus comes to home—who should pull up in his plod car but the break-in copper, PC Robinson.”

“Something you want to tell me?”

“Please. Me and one of the boys in blue?” he scolds, but the sly grin he gives me speaks otherwise.

“And he’s not your type. No grey hair. No pension book or bus pass.”

“True cutie though. Think he was more concerned about public safety, me stumbling into the road and causing an accident. But it was nice to be in a warm car. Even if it was a plod wagon. He asked after you.”

“Did he?”

“Said it was good of you going out of your way to help the police.”

“Mmmm.”

“At some club or another. Something you want to tell me?”

“Helping with investigations. A specialist club Denny used to frequent. The Open Lockup in Wandsworth. Do you know it?”

“Open Lockup? No. Wow, sounds kinky, and right up my strasse. Why’ve I never heard of it?”

“Specialist club for couples who are having relationship issues.”

“Aaand...that would be why.”

“Complete waste of time, too. Do you think I should call the police about the parked car?” I ask, deflecting. I already know the answer to my question. Whitehead is aware it has been happening, so there is no real need to follow up. Although he knows nothing about tonight’s little incident. I will let him know next time we speak.

“And tell them what, exactly? Although now you mention it, I’ve seen a car parked there a couple of times. Big silver thing. Very la-di-da. That’s what I thought because the number plate began with LA.”

“Do me a favour. If you so see the car again, can you call PC Robinson and let him know. Remember I’m off to Dorset this afternoon.”

“Bloody hell, Sunday already,” he says, checking his wristwatch as if to confirm, and then bracing his arms, preparing to stand. He may sound lucid but he is still a little unsteady on his feet. “Beauty sleep beckons. So the house is all mine tonight?”

“Until Tuesday evening. And I’ve left the desktop computer out for you to use. Minimal damage to the house, please. Mr Waldorf will give me a full report on Tuesday,” I say, and then as an afterthought add. “Billy. You don’t think that was Big in the Lexus, do you?”

In the process of pushing upright, Billy freezes, rolls his eyes and falls back into the cushion.

“For God’s sake, mother. Give the assumptions a rest, will you? First of all, Big wouldn’t be seen dead in one of those petrol guzzling monsters, he’s a greenie, remember. Secondly, if either one of us was going to be doing any stalking, it would not be Big. And lastly, as I already told you, he’s still in Glasgow. Has been since before Christmas. His father-in-law’s not well, or something. We haven’t spoken since New Years’ Day. So let it go, will you?”

“Okay, okay. But one last thing and then I’ll let you go to bed. The other morning, you said something about Vaughan not being a saint. What did you mean?”

“Did I?” he says, an expression of embarrassment, as he wobbles to his feet. “I wouldn’t take any notice of me.”

“Come on, Billy. What did you mean?”

“I know I’d only just joined the mad house back then. But, let’s just say I didn’t see Yawn being particularly loving or supportive when you were grieving for your uncle.”

Honestly, I remember nothing. After dealing with the requisite funeral arrangements, mounds of paperwork, changes to status, and then probate, I was so shell-shocked I barely noticed anything else going on around me. Maybe Vaughan was not as present as always but I thought at the time he was merely trying to give me space.

“I barely remember. All I know is he was there whenever I needed him”

“Well, let me tell you, he hung out with Denny a lot back then. With his work mates at the firm, too. Not saying anything happened, but just something you should know. Think he found real life a bit too much to stomach, you know? Helping to deal with your uncle’s illness and the fallout was a bit too much reality for him.”

This is something I did not know and maybe Billy has a personal spin on what happened. All I know is that Vaughan was there without question when I needed him. This conversation needs to end.

“What did you get up to tonight?”

“Me? Not much. Drag show at the VoxTav until midnight. Then on to some nightclub Marcus wanted to try.”

Billy usually avoids Vauxhall because Mr Big has an apartment there. When I purposely pause for a moment and catch his eye, his smile is more irritated than amused.

“Big and I are over, Colin. End of chapter. Let it go.”

“Come on, I wasn’t thinking—“

“Yes, you were,” he says, finally making it up from the sofa. “So now we’re both old maids sitting celibate on the shelf.”

If only he knew.

“You won’t be there for long. Plenty of old crumblies out there waiting for a young admirer.”

“Ha ha. You’re the creature of habit, darling, not me,” he says, stepping around the sofa before reaching out to switch off the lamp, plunging me into darkness.

“Hey!”

“Oops sorry,” he says, switching the lamp back on, catching my eye and making us both laugh.

Not long after he turns in, and after I have checked the locks front and back, the hour is almost six o’clock. Deciding between a long hot bath or a couple of hours sleep, I go with attempting slumber again and once under the covers, tumble instantly into a profound sleep.

******

At nine-twenty Sunday morning, only Mr Waldorf and I disturb the peace when I step bleary-eyed from the bedroom. Like a bank vault Billy’s bedroom door is sealed tight. As for me, sleep has been unusually deep and I remember no dreams. Waking to the faint scent of Whitehead still infused in the pillow and sheets, of semen, perspiration and a gentle musk of lemon spice, I am transported back to his visits and relive our bouts of sexual abandonment. Why does the memory still make me feel uneasy, as though I have done something illicit or obliquitous? After standing over the bed and glowering, I strip off the bedsheets and pillow cases. Once the mattress is laid with fresh, crease-free linen, and newly cased pillows are aligned symmetrically against the headboard, I make my way to the laundry room. Before dumping the old linen into the washing machine, I cannot resist pushing my head into the fabric one last time to savour the smell of someone I will never have. Once the tub door is closed and water begins rushing into the machine, a pressure drains from me, a mix of relief and regret. I scan the kitchen for things to busy myself with but spot only one solitary cup sitting on the draining board already rinsed. Everything else is in its place, although the back door key now sits in its new spot on the sideboard. Beyond the kitchen window, the earlier chill weather has given way to the constant clatter of a downpour, and any thoughts of tidying the garden are drowned out. Back in the main part of the house everything stands tidy and well ordered. Vague panic begins to gnaw at my stomach. But just as my mind clutches at the idea of disturbing Billy to collect his dirty laundry, I manage to mentally confront myself, take quick breaths and tell my inner self to calm down and take stock.

Unlike the cloistered weekend just gone I need no domestic chores to keep me occupied. To begin with, I have my bicycle back and can punish my body for an hour on the open road. And by the front door sits my packed case, reminding me that later today I have brunch and a road trip with Kit, socialising with an uncomplicated, drama-free, pleasant-looking human being. Add to that the bonus of reconnecting with old friends, and today could not look more promising. Martin had been right to berate me about staying indoors too much. Feeling lighter, I push from my mind the week that has been with all its peaks and troughs, and decide to get my life back to some semblance of normality.

Once Mr Waldorf is fed—my one final chore—I dig out my lightweight waterproof cycling gear of banana and black. Helmet snapped in place on top of a baseball cap—the visor of the cap helping to protect my eyes from the rain—I open the front door to the chill grey waterfall, clattering the road and pavement outside my house. Unable to enjoy my usual exercise ritual for the past few weeks, I am damned if a spot of inclement weather is going to stop me. Chill raindrops numb my fingers, as I fumble with the garden shed’s slick padlock and finally haul out my bike. Snapping the lock back in place, I push the racer out through the front gate by the seat and hop onto the saddle. Already coasting some way along the pavement—no neighbours out to brave the weather—I clunk down onto the road and start pounding the tarmac.

Even the cruel shards battering my face cannot spoil the overwhelming sense of release and relief; a racehorse set free to run unsaddled across an open field, a bird uncaged to reclaim the sky. By the time I get home just after eleven, sodden through but happily stretched and worked, I am finally ready for and deserving of a long, hot bath.

At twelve-thirty, when I push open the glass door to Miller’s Bistro with my overnight bag slung across my shoulder, Kit is already seated at a table, his blond thatch sticking up above the brunch menu. His attention is roused as soon as the door opens, when he hears the clatter of rain from the pavement. He lowers the menu and gives me his broadest smile. Despite my tiredness from a largely sleepless night, his warm scrutiny is infectious. What am I doing fooling around with Ben Whitehead when this well-mannered hunk who happens to like hanging out with me is right here? Okay, so he happens to be straight and we are both getting over relationships, but at least we hide nothing from each other. Maybe I should take Ben up on his offer. Have him for sex and Kit for friendship.

On this dreary day of all days, he dresses in a white crew cut sweater and I notice not only khaki cargo pants, but also flip-flops beneath the table. You can take the man out of Texas. Fortunately he has the sense to bring along an umbrella which lays beneath the table in a self-made puddle. Car keys, mobile phone and a bulky leather wallet sit side by side on his bread plate. The word casual defines Kit Hansen.

“All set for a road trip?” he says, as I take a seat opposite and snatch up a menu.

“Sure am, Thelma,” I reply, making him smile broadly.

“We missed you Friday night, buddy,”

“Yes?” I reply skeptically, scanning the list of five or six appetisers. “Who’s we?”

“Well,” he says, his face dropping back into the menu. “Me. For sure. What you been up to?”

There it is again. Another veiled compliment. Is he flirting with me? Or is that just good old Texan charm? I have no idea so decide to change tack.

“Decided to have a quiet night in.” After a heated argument with a member of the CID who shall remain nameless. “Thought about coming to the Duck but I knew I’d only get grilled. Tired anyway. Thursday night I made the mistake of going for happy hour drinks at Smugglers with the lodger and the pre-pubescent friends he hangs out with,” I reply, my face trained on the menu. “Only just managed to escape with my sanity intact.”

For a night of incredible sex with a hot but heavily closeted copper. Naturally, I leave the last part unspoken.

“Shame. A few of us went on for an early dinner Friday.”

“You did?” I say, lowering the menu, my jaw dropping. “Who’s a few?”

“Oh, you know. Barnie, Helen, Jeremy and his wife. Usual crew.”

“Martin?”

“No, he didn’t show that night.”

“Probably visiting his mother. Kimberley?”

“Yep, she was there,” he says, still scanning his menu. Finally catching my expression, he rolls his eyes. “Come on, Cole. She’s a nice woman. A good listener.”

“And did she try to jump your bones?”

“Funny. You were the main topic of conversation. Heck, what is it with you Brits?”

“You haven’t answered my question.”

“No, she did not. And you haven’t answered mine.”

“What can I say? We live on a small island and lead sheltered lives. So how did it go?”

“Interesting. I had something called Chicken Pavlova.”

“With Kimberley, smartass.”

Turns out Kimberley had been on best behaviour and they parted company straight after the meal. Afterwards the topic changes back to the trip down to Dorset and I ask him about the route he has decided on. Turns out he has had the foresight to rent a satellite navigation device.

“So. Slight change of plan.”

Kit peers up, his eyes registering concern.

“Don’t worry. We’re still headed to Dorset, but we’ve been upgraded to the big house. I’ll explain on the way but I do have a new postcode for the satnav.” I say, then check the floor his side of the table. “Where’s your luggage?”

“Already in the trunk,” he replies, and then becomes a little anxious. “Hey look, Cole. I don’t have a suit with me. Just shoes, jacket, shirt and chinos. Is that going to be cool?”

“Derek promised faithfully. No formal wear. I hate it, too. So yes, you’ll be perfect. Your attire, I mean.”

Although I keep my eyes trained on the bill of fare, I notice Kit’s mouth curl into a smile. After a moment, he places his menu on the table and leans forward.

“And Colin,” he says, lowering his voice. “If they put us in the same room, don’t make a big deal, yeah? Even if they give us a double. Long as you can handle it, so can I. I don’t want to appear ungrateful.”

I have not even given that a thought. Feeling my face flush, I lower the menu and lean in too.

“You know what, I can give him a call if you—?”

“Colin,” he says, grinning. “Chill, will you. No big deal. And I’m okay if you are. Let’s play it by ear.”

Sharing a room together is not something that has been on my radar. Until now, that is. But I had told Derek that Kit is straight so surely he will be sensitive to the arrangement. Fortunately I have brought my pyjamas. To sidetrack my own wild thoughts as well as to engage Kit, I give him the background on the other guests coming to dinner that evening, the ones I know. Over the main course of Gammon à l’Ananas—gammon steak, pineapple and sweetcorn rice—and his Cod Wellington—cod, mushrooms and smoked salmon pate wrapped in puff pastry—I challenge him about the route he has chosen down to Dorset, but as the designated driver, he is unshakeable. A comfortable silence falls between us as we both tuck into apricot crumble and creme anglais.

When my gaze drifts outside, I spot Toby, a young student of mine looking at the menu to the right of the shop door, his arm around a pretty young girl. Behind them must be her parents because I know Toby’s. They give the bistro a cursory glance before moving on. Roguish but not particularly good looking, Toby usually has a fixed grin crinkling the corner of his mouth, as though he has just cottoned on to a joke. None too interested in my class and, unlike his fellow students, he is the kind of boy who manages to get by on personal charm alone. Caught in a fresh and vigorous flurry of wind and rain, I watch as Toby and the girl huddle under the shop’s awning, him trying to negotiate her floral umbrella, her cowering behind his back.

“Who’s that?”

“A student,” I say, when I take in Kit’s quizzical grin.

“History lover?”

“Toby? Hardly. His one and only interest is art. Street art I think they call it to make it more socially acceptable. He’s got his sights set on the RCA. Apparently, he’s talented. Personally I find the whole graffiti culture offensive. Gaudy and self indulgent,” I say, and then fall silent, wondering if Toby and his pals are responsible for the recent spate of graphic diarrhoea around our fine streets. “Guess I prefer my art to come with a frame. We held a competition at the school using one of the walls of the science block. And Toby’s…”

Reality dawns on me and I laugh aloud at the tablecloth.

“Surely not?”

“What?”

“I don’t know,” I mutter, and then see his confused expression. “Sorry. The boys like playing pranks. Someone popped a thumb drive into my coat pocket. I didn’t even check the contents until this morning. But it’s all these video clips of graffiti on a wall in some random car park. I’m wondering if it’s Toby or one of his art pals.”

“Why would they do that?”

“If you were a teacher you would’t even ask. And I don’t hide my feelings or opinions about their so-called art. It’s probably their way of trying to educate me.”

“Nice.”

“Trust me. Compared to East Barton, it’s—what do you Americans say—a walk in the park.”

While waiting for our coffee to arrive, the special phone vibrates in my inside jacket pocket. Only one person knows the number so it is not difficult to know who is calling. I excuse myself from the table with an apologetic smile, and, despite his curious expression, push my way through the front door and huddle beneath the restaurant’s canopy.

“Hi Ben,” I say, above the clatter of rain, before he has a chance to speak.

“Having a nice lunch?”

“Huh?” I answer, looking along the road, but only spotting blurry cars hissing past in the rain. “I am, as it happens.”

“You’ll have to give me your opinion. In case I want to try the place out one day,” he says, and instinctively I scan the road again to see if he might be parked up somewhere spying on me. “Anyway, this isn’t a social call. We’re still trying to find the girlfriend. Text me Roland’s number. She may have his phone. Are you free later today? We need you to check a few things over for us. Say around four?”

Without answering I glance back into the restaurant through the steamed up window. The spectral outline of Kit’s head appears to be staring my way. Even though my light mood has evaporated, good manners nag me.

“I can’t, Ben. Friends have invited me down to their place in Dorset. Portmanton. A dinner in memory of Denny. We’re driving down after lunch. Staying for a couple of nights.”

“We?”

Why does that single word sound so accusatory? And why do I feel a flutter of guilt in my stomach, when I was little more than a one night stand—albeit twice?

“Yes. I’m going with Kit.”

Soft breaths and distant radio music filter down the phone.

“You have a problem with that?” I ask, finally.

“Why would I?”

“He’s just a friend keeping me company. Who’s comfortable with sleepovers,” I add purposely, even though I feel mean using those exact words. To try and soften the remark, I add, “but it’s not too late to cancel, if you need me to.”

Once again he goes quiet at the end of the phone. I am about to speak again but he comes back.

“No. Might be wise for you to be away from Croxburgh right now. But keep your phone charged and switched on. I’ll let you know if I find anything.”

“Look I need to tell you something, Ben. After you left, I couldn’t sleep. So I pottered around the house for a couple of hours. Later on, as I was going to try to sleep again, I noticed the silver Lexus parked downstairs—“

“Did you call the police?”

“No, I— It was three in the morning.”

“What the hell has that got to do with anything?”

“I didn’t think—“

“Which seems to be a theme with you. Why didn’t you call me, then?”

What can I say? He is right all the way. He texted me while I hid behind the car, so he would have been wide awake.

“Oh God,” he blurts. “What did you do?”

I take a much needed breath before continuing, fairly sure what his reaction will be.

“I crept out the back door and skirted around to the main road, tried to get a glimpse of the number plate. Because I couldn’t make it out from the bedroom window. But before I could get close enough, Billy pulled up outside the house and the car sped away.”

Although I cannot be sure, I swear I can hear Ben’s heartbeat thundering down the line.

“Is this my fault? Have I done this to you? For making the mistake of getting you involved in finding stuff out about Tony. Because right now you’re acting crazier than rat soup. Either that or you’ve suddenly developed a death wish.”

“I thought I was helping.”

“Well you’re not, so stop. Concentrate on staying out of trouble. And, more importantly, alive.”

“Okay, I’m officially stopping,” I say, suitably chastised and deciding instantly not to mention anything about the thumb drive. Instead I present an offering. “But just one thing. Billy said he remembered the plate began with LA, if that helps?”

“Hmm. Probably not. But I’ll run it by the team. Nobody was parked up when I left. So they must have rocked up after that. And I’ve been driving past each day every few hours to check, ever since you told me. I’ll do the same while you’re away. So your lodger knows about the Lexus?”

“Yes.”

“And is he likely to go all Dirty Harry on us too, if he sees the car parked up?”

“Okay, Ben. Point taken. Loud and clear. And no. Billy seems to be pals with PC Robinson who investigated our break-in. He’d agreed that if he sees the car, he’ll call him.”

“Hallelujah. At least someone in that house has a grain of common sense.”

Alright, Ben. I get it. No more heroics.”

“There’s something else while you’re on the line.”

“Go on.”

“If I give you a description, can you tell me if this sounds like one of your old friends or acquaintances?”

My mouth goes dry because I feel sure I know what is coming. A fresh squall whips into my face so I swing around and cower in the doorway of the bistro. Inside I notice Kit playing with his own phone, probably out of frustration with his supposed lunch company. My gut tells me that Ben is about to describe Hugh and I am going to have to tell the truth, hand my friend on a plate to the police before we have even had a chance to talk. When Ben does not speak I realise he is waiting for my response.

“Of course. Go ahead.”

“Okay, hold on,” he says, and across the line I hear pages of his trusted notepad being flipped.

“Yes. Early thirties, about five eleven, dark curly hair usually cut short, lightly tanned skin, has a faint, strawberry-shaped birthmark or scar beneath the left ear. Always expensively suited so probably a businessman, they think. A banker or broker,” he says, surprising me at the last because I had been expecting him to use the word ‘lawyer’ or ’solicitor’. Having braced myself to hear a description of Hugh, I am wholly unprepared for this, the birthmark being the clincher.

“Who thinks that?” I snap.

“Sorry?”

“Who provided the description?”

“Do you know who this is or not, Colin?”

I assume this information has come to light as a result of our visit to The Open Lockup. While I want to be as helpful as possible, I am also reluctant to throw my ex-partner to the wolves. Then again, I find it impossible to believe that Vaughan would have been mixed up in anything illicit.

“Yes. I think so.”

“And?”

“I will tell you, Ben. Just tell me why you need to know.”

“Ramone at the club. Luck would have it one of our officers knows him so we picked him up and had a cosy chat this morning. Well and truly spooked. When he ran from his flat that day, he thought you were the police. Anyway, we grilled him and he doesn’t know where the girl is and we believe him. Thinks she’s probably hiding out somewhere and I agree with him. But he gave me some useful tidbits including this. Someone who used to frequent the club occasionally as Harrison’s guest. So who is it?”

“The description fits Vaughan.”

“Not your—?”

“Ex-partner, yes.”

“You’re sure?”

“Without question.”

“I see,” he says, and then pauses and softens his tone. “It’s probably nothing, Colin. Ramone says he saw this person once or twice with Denny and Tony.”

“There’s no way Vaughan—“ I begin, but then what do I know? Apparently very little. The description fits him perfectly. So is that how the owners of The Open Lockup got the inspiration for the guest room that resembles my bedroom? That would make sense. What am I thinking? How can that possibly make any sense at all? As soon as I get a moment free, I need to call Vaughan. Pronto. Flustered now, I continue on, finding it hard to keep the bitterness from my tone. “If that’s true, then you probably won’t be surprised to hear this is news to me.”

“Maybe it happened after you two had already split—“

“Good try, Ben. But he’s been in Asia since then.”

“Look Colin,” he says, a seriousness in his tone. “I’m going to need to talk to him at some point. And I don’t want him forewarned. You need to keep this to yourself. Can you do that?”

Fresh anger ripples through me. Why would Vaughan have kept something like this from me? If he simply met up with Denny and Hugh for dinner and drinks then why not tell me? And more importantly, if he felt the need to hide this from me, what else was there?

Colin!”

“Yes! Yes, I promise to keep this to myself. He sometimes calls me at home on Sundays, but I’m away for the rest of the weekend. And he’s stuck in Manila for work.”

“Good. When do you plan on getting back to town?“

“Late Tuesday afternoon. Driving back as soon as the funeral’s over.”

“Okay. Let’s catch up then. Maybe I could come over in the evening.”

And there it is. That little olive branch that brings my thoughts back into focus, has my stomach rolling and my imagination suddenly running replays of our nights of bedroom olympics.

“I’d like that,” I say warmly. “A lot.”

“Yeah, me too,” he says, and I can hear the smile in his voice. “Now go and enjoy your lattes. And tell pretty boy this is no weather for shorts and flip-flops.”

“Where the hell are you, Ben?”

But the line has already gone dead.

When I return to the table, Kit puts his own phone away and it seems only fair to give him an explanation. Not that he is fishing for one, but if we are going to be spending time together over the next few days, I want him to understand.

“Sorry about that,” I say, taking my seat again. “Still being pestered by the police. More questions.”

“You look rattled. Let me guess. Sam Spade wannabe?”

“Who else?”

After putting down his coffee cup, he checks his watch.

“Guess we should hit the road, if we’re going to make good time in this weather. You need the bathroom?”

“I’m fine. You go on and I’ll get the bill.”

He nods and stands, but as he is about to head off, stops and smiles wryly.

“You know, Cole. If I didn’t know better, I’d think that cop’s got a thing for you. Can’t seem to leave you alone.”

“He has a thing for me all right,” I reply quickly, with a scowl. “It’s called a prison cell.”

Whether my glare of disgust fools him or not I have no idea because he turns and heads off into the depths of the restaurant. I just hope he has attributed the blood flooding my cheeks to the weather.

div>
I hope you enjoyed this chapter. If you'd like to join in a chat or leave any additional comments about the plot or cast of characters, I have created a forum accessed via on the link below:
http://www.gayauthors.org/forums/topic/40694-kissing-the-dragon-discussion-forum/
Brian (a.k.a. lomax61

Copyright © 2015 lomax61; All Rights Reserved.
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Stories posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
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  • Site Moderator

Colin's chat with Billy cleared up some things Colin was dressed down properly be Ben for his unwise behavior. At least we know he's been keeping an eye out for the Lexus. I imagine the PC who brought Billy home had his eyes elsewhere. Now for that restful weekend at a country estate. Somehow I don't think it's going to work out that way.

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  • Site Moderator

I think drp is correct regarding that "restful" weekend in Dorset. What I want to know more about is Vaughan's duplicity.
Is Officer Ben following Colin? I don't think it's my imagination or wishful thinking, but he seems to care a lot more about Colin then he is willing to admit - even to himself. A few chapters ago, I would have thought this impossible or palatable, but now I am hoping it's true.
Next chapter please and thank you. :)

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Somehow I think Colin got off lightly tis time, even if Ben kept teasing him about tinkering with detection. But I shudder to imagine what will happen when Colin comes home (if he does) and has to tell Ben about Hugh. Even if Colin gets satisfactory answers from Hugh about why he's been going to the Club with Denny (most likely cheating on his partner), can you imagine Ben's reaction to being told Colin exposed himself to danger and did not tell Ben about Hugh beforehand. :facepalm::angry::fight:

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Colin is beginning to act more sensibly ... I really like the direction this story is headed. I'm also part of the group that thinks this is going to be an interesting weekend.
Thanks for giving us such a great read.

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On 09/19/2015 11:20 PM, drpaladin said:

Colin's chat with Billy cleared up some things Colin was dressed down properly be Ben for his unwise behavior. At least we know he's been keeping an eye out for the Lexus. I imagine the PC who brought Billy home had his eyes elsewhere. Now for that restful weekend at a country estate. Somehow I don't think it's going to work out that way.

Hi Tony - it's not a simple story. Billy makes a connection with the policeman, which turns out to be a good choice. In part, Colin thinks this weekend away is a good idea, but then Ben is back in London. Let's see how that pans out. Brian

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On 09/20/2015 02:12 AM, Reader1810 said:

I think drp is correct regarding that "restful" weekend in Dorset. What I want to know more about is Vaughan's duplicity.

Is Officer Ben following Colin? I don't think it's my imagination or wishful thinking, but he seems to care a lot more about Colin then he is willing to admit - even to himself. A few chapters ago, I would have thought this impossible or palatable, but now I am hoping it's true.

Next chapter please and thank you. :)

Hi Reader1810 - Is Ben following Colin? "He seems to care a lot more about Colin than he is willing to admit" Ain't that the truth! So please keep reading because all will become very clear, very soon. Brian

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On 09/20/2015 05:30 PM, Timothy M. said:

Somehow I think Colin got off lightly tis time, even if Ben kept teasing him about tinkering with detection. But I shudder to imagine what will happen when Colin comes home (if he does) and has to tell Ben about Hugh. Even if Colin gets satisfactory answers from Hugh about why he's been going to the Club with Denny (most likely cheating on his partner), can you imagine Ben's reaction to being told Colin exposed himself to danger and did not tell Ben about Hugh beforehand. :facepalm::angry::fight:

Hi Tim - but Ben is not so clueless, as you'll see. Colin wants to protect his friends but Ben is a seasoned policeman. Not much gets past him. Enough said. Brian

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On 09/22/2015 02:09 AM, dughlas said:

Colin is beginning to act more sensibly ... I really like the direction this story is headed. I'm also part of the group that thinks this is going to be an interesting weekend.

Thanks for giving us such a great read.

Thanks dughlas - I will do my best not to disappoint. Brian

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Bft

Posted (edited)

Ok so we know that the Lexus was bought new from Lexus Battersea, which makes me think that someone maybe looking for Vaughan, I wonder if he owes someone money or it has to do with Vaughan helping out Tony and other street kids? Or it could be someone who is connected with Open Locker?

Edited by Bft
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Why do I get the idea that Ben will be close at hand to the party at Dorset?  Also, why did Colin tell Kit and not Ben about the thumb drive with graffiti. I'm older than Colin and understand that graffiti is a form of communication, often with hidden meanings.

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