Survival Game (Men of London Book 9) Read online

  THE MEN OF LONDON

  HANDLE…

  Kyle Tripper has led an interesting life. Currently the manager of London's famous Club Delish, he used to be a croupier extraordinaire in Las Vegas. But not everything in that life was so glamorous; his ex was a piece of work. Now gun-shy, Kyle hopes there is someone special out there for him, and he secretly wishes it's luscious paramedic Eric Kirby.

  WITH CARE

  Every day Eric Kirby goes through the motions. Yeah, he saves lives, and, sure, he makes a difference, but he doesn't feel it anymore--not since he lost his one true. But, when he meets wild, flamboyant Kyle Tripper and learns there's a skittish, apprehensive man beneath the bold façade, the best of Eric's protective nature kicks in, and he opens his heart to a new love.

  SURVIVAL GAME

  A Men of London Romance

  Susan Mac Nicol

  www.BOROUGHSPUBLISHINGGROUP.com

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, business establishments or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. Boroughs Publishing Group does not have any control over and does not assume responsibility for author or third-party websites, blogs or critiques or their content.

  SURVIVAL GAME

  Copyright © 2017 Susan Elaine Mac Nicol

  Smashwords Edition

  All rights reserved. Unless specifically noted, no part of this publication may be reproduced, scanned, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of Boroughs Publishing Group. The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or by any other means without the permission of Boroughs Publishing Group is illegal and punishable by law. Participation in the piracy of copyrighted materials violates the author’s rights.

  ISBN 978-1-944262-87-7

  E-book formatting by Maureen Cutajar

  www.gopublished.com

  There can be no question about to whom this book needs to be dedicated. Having experienced their services firsthand, both for myself and for family members, the paramedics and ambulance drivers out there provide an invaluable service and one that is regrettably paid less than what these amazingly dedicated people are worth. All over the world, we’ve seen their work firsthand during many recent tragic events, and make no mistake, it’s a tough career choice dealing day in and day out with injured, dying and damaged people.

  Let’s give them their due, not only the ones on the ground but the ones in the air, and if you can spare a few pennies, or your time and involvement, there are great causes to donate to, such as:

  theairambulanceservice.org.uk

  www.londonambulance.nhs.uk/getting_involved.aspx

  www.theasc.org.uk/what-we-do

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Bearing the dedication in mind, there is one single person who deserves this acknowledgement for helping this book get written. His name is Binder Smiff (not his real name) and he was an invaluable help to me on giving generously of his time and experiences as a genuine London Ambulance paramedic.

  I found Binder when I was looking around the web for a paramedic blog to get some insight on what really goes on out there. I found this one and was hooked:

  www.not-on-my-shift.org

  Twitter @Binder999

  It opened my eyes to everyday life and events in the London streets and made me chuckle more than once. Irreverent, true, blunt and compassionate all in one.

  He took time out to write me reams of emails (and boy, they were detailed) on how things get done, to give me the insight I needed and to teach me about the real life out there as a paramedic. While I haven’t written overly much about the clinical processes in this story, Binder’s help focused me on what NOT to say or assume, and that was just as important.

  Read his blog; you won’t be disappointed. He recently coined a phrase of his own with respect to his job and remembering the people he’s helped, lost, and continues to help while he carries on learning his trade and from his mistakes: Remember well and never dwell.

  SPECIAL THANKS to my brilliant editor Michelle Klayman at Boroughs. As always, she tells it straight and makes me write a better book. She is my rock.

  And to the readers of my books, thank you from the bottom of my heart. Without you, I’d be truly lost. Every one of you is treasured by me, and never doubt it.

  CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Author Note

  About the Author

  Connect with Susan

  Also by Susan Mac Nicol

  SURVIVAL GAME

  Chapter One

  Some sounds a man never forgets. It could be his newborn child drawing their first breath, or the whispered exhale of a lover as they climax. It could be the first bars of a song at his wedding or a round of applause at his first big casino win.

  Some sounds needed to be forgotten. The slap of a fist hitting flesh; the wheeze of breath as ribs shatter; the ringing in the ears from being hit over and over again.

  Kyle Tripper wished he could forget the sounds of his past. Hearing them when sleeping was bad enough. He didn’t need to be reminded when he was awake.

  He sat in the cinema next to Steve, his blind date, hearing him munch through copious amounts of popcorn. On screen, a senseless and violent film played. The bile in Kyle’s mouth soured the taste of the sweet Pepsi he’d just sipped.

  He held his phone in his lap, trying to make sure its light didn’t disturb people behind him as he texted.

  This sucks, boss. My date is an arsehole. Making me watch Fistfight instead of Hackaway. FML.

  He’d been looking forward to seeing the acclaimed drama about a group of misspent youths taking part in a corporate project to test corporate security.

  Ryan Bishop, his friend and employer, was quick to text back.

  Hey, Violet, make an excuse and get out of there. Didn’t you have to wash your hair?:)

  Kyle smirked at the nickname—courtesy of his purple hair and violet contacts—then winced as a man on screen screamed loudly in pain. The plot of Fistfight was nothing more than a badly directed effort at giving brawny men the excuse to beat each other senseless. He wasn’t a fan. His hands shook a little when he texted his reply.

  Yeah, I’m going to bail once we get out of here. He can forget dinner.

  In return, Ryan provided a gif of a man running screaming down the street, together with a thumbs-up emoji and the words: He gives you any trouble, call me. I’ll send Mango along to sort him out. An angry emoji ended the text.

  Kyle was sure Ryan’s partner would love to sort someone out. Everyone was wary of Mango Munroe and his fierce stare, and even more protective instincts.

  Pushing the phone back into his jacket pocket, Kyle heaved a sigh. The one saving grace was that the film was almost over.

  Ten minutes later, they were standing in the chilly early March evening air, huffing clouds of steam from cool lips.

  “Wasn’t that a great film?” Steve enthused as he huddled into his parka. “I love man-on-man fight action and car chases.”

  Kyle grimaced. “Not my thing
,” he muttered, shaken and morose from all the gratuitous on-screen violence. “I mean, come on. There’s not much to a film like that, is there? Just some guys with their shirts off beating up on other guys.” His dark mood deepened. He needed a drink, something to forget the sordid memories the film had stirred.

  Steve shoved his arm playfully. “Come on, gorgeous. You mean all that testosterone and chest hair doesn’t turn you on just a little bit? Leave you with a need to maybe get up close and personal with someone?”

  Steve edged closer, his intent clear.

  Kyle didn’t want to be there on the street with a man who thought violence was a turn-on. He’d been down that road before. He wanted to go home to his flat a few blocks down from Club Delish—the nightclub where he worked—make hot chocolate, and crawl under a duvet, alone. The contacts in his eyes hurt, making them gritty and sore.

  He shook his head, moving out of Steve’s orbit. “I’m not feeling too well, actually. I think I’m going to skip your dinner offer and go home.”

  Steve stared at him, narrowing his eyes. “Honestly? You’re going to leave me here with a boner and expect me to take care of it myself? Especially after paying for the film?”

  The first trickling of unease danced across Kyle’s spine like sly spider legs. He moved further away from Steve, regarding him warily.

  “If I’d known the payment for being treated to a movie was taking care of your boner, I’d rather not have gone,” he said quietly. “I didn’t realise there was a quid pro quo for being company tonight.”

  My blind date just got fucking worse. Never again.

  “Well, that’s how the dating world normally works, Kyle.” Steve moved closer, anger threading through his tone. Kyle’s vision swam as his personal space was encroached. Panic fluttered in his chest, making his heart skip beats.

  “Don’t crowd me, Steve,” Kyle warned. “Can’t we just say we didn’t agree on the film choice and leave it at that? I don’t want to go home on a bad note.”

  Steve gripped his arm, his mouth twisting in a smirk. “Maybe just a kiss then?” he wheedled, as Kyle’s heart thudded madly. “Or a quick blowjob? I bet those beautiful lips of yours know just how to make a man happy. Your lips and my cock—that’s a match.” Steve leaned in, and instinctively Kyle raised his arm and pushed back on Steve’s hard chest.

  “N-no,” he stuttered. “I’m not kidding. Don’t touch me.”

  Don’t touch me, don’t touch me, he chanted in his head. Not with that fire in your eyes and that aggression in your belly. No dark touches, please.

  Kyle wasn’t averse to being touched under the right circumstances. What he feared were those touches he thought of as the dark. Hardened, insidious fists pummelling into an already aching belly, rough kicks to ribs and face when he was curled up on the floor; pinches to skin already marked with scratches and bruises. Then there were the more intimate ones, the ones Kyle tried not to think about—rough, punitive sex meant to break him.

  Steve’s hold tightened. “Fuck that,” he snarled. “I at least deserve a goodnight kiss.”

  Kyle was pushed back against the wall and a greedy, wet mouth invaded his own. He tried to keep his lips pressed together, not wanting to give Steve the satisfaction of gaining access. Steve was determined, though, and within seconds a hot, slick tongue was forced into Kyle’s mouth.

  Please, please, don’t do this. Please.

  Stomach roiling in fear, he tried again to push Steve away, memories of being forced taking over and blanking out his brain. Bile rose in his throat, and with a touch of hysteria creeping in, he wondered what Steve would do if Kyle vomited into his hungry mouth.

  In a weird twist of fate, it was a homophobic bastard walking down the street that saved him from any further mauling.

  “Get a fucking room, you faggots,” the man yelled.

  Steve let go, his lips releasing Kyle’s bruised mouth, then he turned and raised a middle finger at the man on the other side of the street. “Fuck you,” he yelled. “Fuck off, you wanker.”

  Kyle seized his opportunity. Within seconds, he was running back down the street as Steve and the Neanderthal traded insults. Kyle’s legs pumped like a sprinter’s as fear of being caught threatened to overtake him; his deep, rasping breaths were a staccato accompaniment to the sound of his heavy footsteps on the pavement.

  His focus was on getting home. Then, maybe, once safe, he could forget about tonight. Forget he’d made another bad decision, that he was a loser when it came to dating.

  He thanked God his instinct for self-preservation had included not giving Steve his home address or number.

  As Kyle ran past Club Delish, he glimpsed a light on in the flat above the club. Although tempted, he wasn’t going to disturb his friends at this hour. Not the best way to pay back Ryan’s offering Mango as backup.

  When Kyle reached the relative safety of his building, he ran up the stairs to the fourth floor, not even waiting to get the rickety, ancient lift that wheezed from floor to floor as if on its last legs.

  It was only when he was at home, locks bolted and security chain slung across the door that he began to relax. He poured himself a favourite drink, a shot glass of white rum, and gulped it back while he waited for his hands to stop shaking.

  “Fuck,” he swore as he filled the glass again. “I need to stop this blind date shit. It sucks.”

  He tossed the second shot down then another before he dragged himself into his bedroom. Bed was a good place to be, even though it wasn’t even midnight. Being a night owl, used to working ’til the early morning hours, his body clock wouldn’t like this early-to-bed scenario.

  Well, tonight his body clock could get stuffed. Sometimes knocking yourself out was the only way to forget the past.

  Chapter Two

  At seven in the morning, Kyle emerged from his bed tired and headachy. Even after three shots of rum, he hadn’t slept well. Memories of the past had chased him in his sleep.

  Staring at the bathroom mirror, he grimaced at the dark circles under his eyes, which were bloodshot and swollen. He swore softly. No contacts today then. His trademark deep violet would have to be forgotten. Instead, everyone would have to bear the muddy-brown eyes he was born with.

  He’d feel naked without his favourite fashion accessory. He didn’t need them—he had virtually perfect vision—but liked the cloaking they seemed to afford him. Eyes behind tiny pieces of coloured hydrogel hid emotions he didn’t want seen.

  He peered closer into the mirror and winced.

  Crap. Even guy-liner might be off the cards today. With the amount of rubbing he would no doubt be doing to alleviate his sore eyes, he’d end up looking like a manic panda.

  Thank God it was Monday and he had the day off. Not for the first time he was grateful Club Delish was closed Sundays and Mondays.

  “Fuck my life,” he said gloomily as he stared into the bathroom mirror. “I really thought Steve might be different. But, no. Once again, I go out with an arsehole and once again I end up alone.”

  My dick really needs to see some action. It’s forgotten how to work.

  He pulled his boxers away from his hips and stared down at his groin. Yep, his dick was still there, looking sad with only a smidgen of morning wood nestled in a patch of dark bristles. Kyle sighed. He needed to man-scape again but right now, he couldn’t be bothered. No one was going to see it anyway.

  He brushed his fingers over his nipple rings, hissing at the sensation flooding through him. It was a sorry confession to make, but this action was the closest thing to hands on his body for over a month—well, apart from the occasional jackoff.

  “I am so pathetic,” he groaned. “Jesus, what I’d give—” He clamped his lips together instinctively at his blasphemy. For a split second, he expected the rolling punch of a fist against his cheek, followed by other things he preferred not to think about.

  His gut tightened in both panic and relief. Those days were over; he could say what he liked now, use
God, or whomever as many times as he liked without penance. The strange thing was, he hardly ever did. His will had been moulded—no, hammered into submission.

  After showering, dressing and savouring a cup of coffee—not pods, his boss Ryan had introduced him to the pleasures of a mouth-watering Italian drip blend—he was ready to face the day. Sitting down on the couch, he looked at his telly viewing options, his mood darkening when he saw the offerings.

  He could watch more Banshee, but pulled a face as he toyed with the remote. Given his dry spell, he wasn’t really in the mood to watch Lucas Hood nail yet another willing lady. The guy had the stamina and sex drive of a rabid rabbit.

  He did appreciate the nude scenes, though. Watching Lucas’s tight arse pistoning in and out of someone—he tried to ignore the fact he was basically watching soft het porn—led to fantasies that it was his arse Lucas was pounding.

  Okay. No telly. Kyle could play cards. Forty Thieves was his patience game of choice. He could practise his shuffling skills, which, he had to say, were awesome, but it was never a bad idea to keep them fresh. The casino he’d worked at mostly had automatic card shufflers to get the job done, but an old and wizened casino dealer had taught Kyle the art of the manual shuffle.

  When things had gotten past bad with his ex, Kyle used shuffling to occupy his mind—as long as his fingers hadn’t been bruised or cut, or at worst, broken.

  No. No cards. Perhaps he could watch Banshee and jerk off watching Lucas pound flesh. The very fact he’d considered that idea made him groan loudly.

  Fuck, how sad am I?

  He contented himself with eating half a tub of Ben and Jerry’s Rocky Road ice cream for breakfast because he thought the title suited his life. Then he relented and watched Lucas Hood bang yet another bird, ignoring the twinge of jealousy he felt for the woman.

  Bloody hell. That man can sure move his hips.