Rubbing One Out - Susan Mac Nicol Page 0,1

eccentric parents had taken him along on their trails to find the next Van Gogh in a boot sale, or a forgotten first edition in a cluttered second-hand shop. Ben had inherited the bug. Nothing soothed him more than rummaging around in places that might offer treasures from another person’s castoffs.

There was also the sense of history and magic in finding old relics. They spoke stories from their years on earth.

Ben was a lover of all things supernatural and magical. No doubt he’d inherited it from his mother, who had regaled his bedtime reading with tales of fairies, pixies, and Ben’s personal favourite, elves. One only had to look now at the gorgeous Orlando Bloom in Lord of the Rings to understand that obsession.

As he cycled the eight or so miles down country lanes alongside the beautiful South Downs National Park, and into the historic town of Wickham, set in the scenic Meon Valley, Ben marvelled at how fortunate he was to live here.

He’d been born and bred in the area, as had his parents and their parents, and the Sinclair family tree reached back hundreds of years. His dad lived in a small bungalow, not too far away. His mom had passed away ten years ago, and they both still missed her.

He parked and chained up his bike outside the cracked redbrick façade of the old mill. He might live in a sleepy village, but thieves still abounded. Usually, the young teenage kind who fancied a joyride. He left his riding gloves and jacket on because the shop was cold as fuck. The owner, old man Jenkins, was a bit of a stingy tosser who didn’t see the benefit of heaters.

As Ben entered the shop, the proprietor’s son, Ryan, looked up from the purchases he was ringing up, and beamed at him.

“Ben. Give me a minute and I’ll be right with you.” Ryan looked down at the goods on the counter, and Ben swore he worked faster to get the poor customer out of the way.

Ben sighed. Ryan was twenty-one, eager, and thought Ben was the answer to his gay prayers. Ben wasn’t fond of people using his full name, but Ryan had fallen into the habit of using it because he said it sounded sexier. Ryan was tasty in a Billy Gilman kind of way, but he wasn’t to Ben’s liking. Ben had a fetish for dark, sexy eyebrows and lean, sinewy bodies. Ryan played fullback in the local rugby team and was rather beefy.

Ben ambled over to a particularly quirky display of antique candelabra and lamps. His cottage could do with a new light for his bedside table. His old one had fallen over and cracked after a rather riotous bout of hook-up sex with an old friend with benefits. Darrall had been rather creative in his endeavours to prove he could suck his own cock. The pair of them had been in hysterics when it had all gone masterfully wrong. Flailing limbs and acrobatic contortions were not conducive to the layout in Ben’s cosy bedroom.

He picked up a couple of items, perusing them with interest then setting them down. He didn’t think he was in the market for a blown-glass lampshade, no matter how pretty it was when the colours sparkled in the sunlight. Behind him, Ryan was trying to sell an antique walking stick to an older man. Ben grinned.

Ryan’s sales patter could do with a little finesse. Ben didn’t think saying “This will help you with those old bones of yours” would endear him to the customer, especially seeing who the customer was. Albert Finkelstein was a crabby old blighter at the best of times. Ben sniggered when Albert replied testily, “Now look here, you whippersnapper, that’s enough of that ageist talk. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

Still chuckling, Ben reached back to the rear of the shelf, knocking something over by accident. The item fell to the floor with a clang, and Ben froze. The shop had a firm Damage Me, Buy Me policy and he didn’t think he wanted…a brass lamp.

He bent down, casting a furtive glance at Ryan, who still looked as if he was feeling the wrath of Albert’s sharp tongue. Ben picked up the lamp in his gloved hands and scrutinised it carefully. It looked undamaged, thank fuck. The price tag said twenty pounds and Ben certainly didn’t think he was in the market for something quirky, which had no real purpose.

It was a charming brass piece, Ben acknowledged.