Page 14 of The Making of Jonty Bloom
Jonty stood the cases side by side next to the closet, turned to see the suit jacket being tossed onto the bed, and his gaze locked onto that enticing arse. He looked up quickly before the guy turned.
“Is there anything else I can do for you? Explain how the TV works, where to plug in the kettle, how to draw the curtains?”Or I could lick your arse?Thank God, he didn’t actually say that.
“No.” No smile, but when he walked up to Jonty, Jonty’s heart thumped hard, right until he saw the five-pound note being offered.
Jonty shook his head. “No thanks. Have a nice stay.” He exited, closed the door and groaned. He’d never refused a tip before, but he didn’t want to take money from this guy. Just in case they ever—Oh fuck it. I should have taken the money.
He supposed there might have been worse beginnings. The day the Titanic set sail for example. Or when Vesuvius decided to belch. Or that afternoon he’d met Brad in the library.Fucking Brad.
He spotted Wayne in reception and passed on the comment about the breakfast, which at least made the hotel’s Mr Miserable smile. Back at the desk, Jonty finally had a chance to examine the parcel. The label was typed using an odd font, like the others. Didn’t mean it was from Brad but…
“Aren’t you going to open it?” Sally-Anne asked.
Jonty pulled at the tape and gingerly opened one end.Oh shit.It was a huge black plastic dildo and it wasn’t inside packaging. Had Brad used it?Eww.There was no note, but he knew Brad had sent it.
Tell the police.
And what are they going to do?
He’s dangerous.
“What is it?” Sally-Anne asked, nosy as ever.
“A big black dildo.”
She laughed because she didn’t believe him. Jonty put the packet in his backpack inside his locker. He had to find a way to stop this. Stophim.
DEVAN LOOKED FROM THE FIVE-POUNDnote in his hand to the closed door and let out a long sigh. That wasn’t the first time he’d had a tip refused, but it was the time that most surprised him. Jonty Bloom was…weird, probably the least suited person to work behind a hotel reception desk that he’d ever met. Even ignoring those four silver studs running the length of his ear, that safety pin in his eyebrow, the messy peroxide hair with dark roots and a suit he appeared to have been sewn into—and his socks were pink—it was his mouth that had Devan all riled up. Not just because speaking to guests in the way he had was plain wrong, but because he could not rid himself of the image of Jonty with that Flake between his lips.
As Devan had stood in the hotel foyer and stared, he’d begun to get an erection, which had to be cut right off at the pass. Picturing Ravi and Griff entwined worked perfectly to give him a limp dick. Jonty Bloom was most definitely not Devan’s type. Though… Did he have a type?He’d thought Ravi had been what he liked. Olive skin, huge eyes, full lips, a body honed at the gym, wild in bed and a mouth that… But any of that now would remind him of Ravi, so maybe he ought to go for someone different, except he’d like a guy who was wild in bed. He and Ravi had liked the same films, same TV shows, same food. More or less. Hadn’t they? The sex had been great. Hadn’t it? Good, at least.Fuck, fuck, fuck!Rage surged and Devan battered it down.
Whatever it was that had made Ravi walk away from him and slide his arse under his brother, Devan would drive himself crazy trying to figure it out. It had already driven him crazy. Though until that meal with his parents, he’d thought he was over the whole damn fiasco. Now, he was questioning himself all over again.What’s wrong with me?Why had Ravi done what he did?How did I fail to see anything?Had there been signs he’d missed? Too many hours spent at work and not being willing to pander to Ravi’s every need? If he didn’t figure out what had gone wrong, how could he make sure it never happened again?
Before Ravi, there’d been Charlie and Miles. Both of whom had dumped him. Sort of. Though it had been more of a mutual parting of ways. Was he such a bad judge of character when it came to men? Or had he got something wrong? Maybe he’d not focused on what he really needed.Which is?He had no fucking idea. He was going to die a sad, lonely, bitter old man, and it served him right.
He changed out of his suit. He’d not been thinking when he set off last night, only of getting here as fast as he could. He wondered if the hotel could get his suit dry-cleaned. Dare he ask Jonty Bloom? He’d probably put it in a washing machine.
As he hung up his clothes, he pulled his mind back on track. He was here to work. His brief was straightforward. Was McAllister’s a hotel that would fit into the Shaw Group’s portfolio? Was the site the right one? How much would the owner want for this place? Would the price offer enough leeway for the necessary renovations and building work? Would knocking it down and starting again be worth it or even possible? What would be successful here? A state-of-the-art spa? A centre for sporting activities? Both? He needed to do some research.
There was a lot wrong with this hotel, though staff like Jonty Bloom could be replaced, the decor changed, maybe the entire building levelled, but its location was fantastic. Seeing the whole bay from the lounge had taken his breath away. The hotel was elevated enough to give a commanding view and near enough to the north-east conurbation to attract discerning guests, even maybe lure them from the south. It was close enough to the beach for guests to walk there, and because it was in a fairly secluded position, away from a large town, it offered a degree of exclusivity. There were no gift shops or amusement arcades or tacky cafés.
He could even see this as a destination for celebs, definitely for high-end clientele. But not yet and maybe never. The décor of the downstairs rooms was dated. This suite was…acceptable, but it needed to be more luxurious. Softer towels and more of them—not twisted into bloody swans—,robes, higher thread count bed linen, original artwork—what was on the wall looked as if it had been done by a bad amateur artist, little touches of luxury like handmade soap, top quality toiletries, good quality glassware, champagne on ice. Those things were easy, but if the building itself wasn’t right…
Open mind, right?
After he’d unpacked, he went back downstairs, sharing the lift with a middle-aged couple and their matching orange suitcases.
“Let me handle this,” the man whispered.
When the lift doors opened, the guy dragged his case to the front desk. “I want to speak to the manager.”
“Jonty will help you.” The woman who’d fetched Devan’s sugar skittered into the back room like the mouse she clearly was.
Jonty emerged. “Mr and Mrs Pickering. What can I do for you?”
“You aren’t the manager,” the guy barked.
“No, but if you tell me what’s wrong, I’ll try to sort things out.”
