Kit Stone hides away in his shabby gift shop, supplementing his income by editing romance books. In his spare moments Kit carves wooden cooks but he never expects the model of one of his carvings to step into his shop. Steve Mullins is gorgeous and pushes all of Kit's buttons. For a few days they get to know each other and Kit is the happiest he's been for years. Then one of the local businessmen is murdered and Steve discovers the body. When Steve becomes the number one suspect, Kit discovers his friends and family have been hiding a dark secret.
EXCERPT:
Prologue
Monday
They tell me I have to
introduce myself so here goes. My name is Kit Stone. I’m thirty-six years old, grey
eyes, have most of my hair and am just under six feet tall. Is that enough
description? I live on my own and I own a small shop in Bregham on the corner
of the High Street and Pool Road. I say own. Sadly, the shop is mine but the
building belongs to Charlie Wright, as close to a gangster as a place like Bregham
gets. Bregham is one of those south coast seaside towns, still living in a
1950s time warp which is just how the residents like it. In summer it’s full of
tourists, in winter it’s full of old people, and most of the time I’m content
to be in my shabby shop.
Tourists love the
place. They spend hours in here sheltering from the rain and never buy a thing. They play with the gifts and toys,
pretending to inspect each item as if they’re going to purchase it. Of course,
they never do. Eventually, they edge their way to the cocks.
Cocks; not the chicken
variety but carved wooden penises.
I see them all; young gay
boys whose eyes pop as they furtively stroke the cocks, the women who are
blatant as they handle Tom and Steve, and the dads who laugh at the collection
but fiddle with all the carvings, preferring Max’s curved shape and Alex’s big
dick. Straight, family man? Heh, size queen!
I have to admit it’s
not much of a shop and I have other jobs to keep the wolf from the door. I’m an
editor for a small press; it’s not the most interesting job but I can work
whilst I man the shop. My publisher is a shoestring operation but they insist
on a good edit and I’m slowly building a reputation as the ‘go-to’ guy. I’ve
taken on freelance work as well, so I’ve got more than enough to handle.
Oh, and I’m gay, if the
wooden cocks didn’t give it away. Gay as the day is long, yada yada. I’ve not
been in a relationship for a few years, not since Tony left with the boy next
door. At first I hated being on my own but now I’ve got used to it and I think
I’d find it hard to live with anyone.
I also drink coffee;
lots of it and heaven help anyone who tries to convert me to herbal tea.
It’s Monday morning,
and the heat wave shows no signs of breaking. That means the shop will be quiet
today. I’m pleased because I’ve got a bitch of an edit to do, and I could
really do with minimal interruption. The publisher sent me this manuscript
because he knows no one else will touch it with the proverbial bargepole.
I make myself a coffee
and wander through the shop, pausing to stroke the cherrywood cock. It’s warm and
sensual under my palm, and the nearest I’ve come to alive since Tony left. I
carve the wooden dicks. A friend of mine produces high end furniture and gives
me the offcuts. Each carving is unique, an individual penis. I wish I could say
they are based on past lovers, but no, they’re just cocks on the porn channels.
I name each cock after its
star. The cherrywood one, Tom, is a favourite of mine, as is the sandalwood
version of Steve. It amuses me to see if people get the connection between the
name and the dick. I can always tell if they do and sometimes it’s the most
surprising people—*cough* vicar *cough*.
As is usual for my
morning routine, I sit down and read the local paper whilst I drink my coffee.
The front page is full of the death of Todger Tim, the moniker affixed to our
local MP, Tim Wellbright, found dead from auto-erotic asphyxiation. As the days
have gone on, the polite expressions of grief have changed into salacious lust
for the smallest details as the mild-mannered Church-going Parliamentarian has
been discovered to have another life including call girls, rent boys and the
occasional underage hooker.
I snort at the latest hyperbole and open the
edit from hell, praying that overnight it will have morphed into a
well-written, interesting manuscript. I am doomed to disappointment. I don’t
pay too much attention when the doorbell rings and then I hear a choking sound.
I look up hoping someone isn’t going to need a 999 call.
A man with broad
shoulders and a tight arse is standing with his back to me. I admire the view
for a moment before I ask, “Can I help you?”
“This is my cock.”
“Pardon?”
The man turns around
with the sandalwood member in his hand. “This is my cock.”
N.B: Please note, if you would like your copy of A Cock in the Window with the alternate cover... please email Sue at suebrown.stories@gmail.com and she will be only too happy to oblige.
This sounds way to good, I have got to read it.
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