With a Kick Collection #2
Auteur:© WebNovel
Chapitre 1: Chapter 1
PLUCK AND PLAY - 1
Curtisjust wanted everyone to get the hell
out of his way. The wind was chilling this morning, cutting his skin with icy
needles even through his second-hand padded jacket. It wasn’t the weather for
hanging around bloody chatting, or wandering aimlessly arm in arm in a zig-zag
up the middle of the street. Didn’t they realise other people had things to do,
places to go? With a rueful grin, he hitched his packed messenger bag further
up on his shoulder and braced his knee against the wall of the nearby dry
cleaner’s shop grocer’s, while he rearranged the outsized pile of boxes he was
carrying down the road from where he’d parked his van. He wasn’t really built
for heavy lifting: even at twenty two, he’d never grown over five foot eight or
out from a thirty four inch chest size. But he was wiry and stronger than he
looked. And he was on a mission to get all this stuff delivered so he could
take a decent break for lunch.
Curtis’
delivery schedule that morning included a couple of boxes to the Chinese
grocer’s on Gerrard Street, then a delivery of part-frozen prawns to the
kitchen of the West London Hotel at Leicester Square. At ten o’clock he was due
to collect the coffee machine from the comedy club and take it for repair. Then
he had a spare hour–hopefully–when he’d promised himself a large sausage sandwich
from the German café and an ice cream at With A Kick. He’d become a real
fan of the shop ever since his flatmate Phiz introduced him to it. He’d laughed
out loud at the bloody stupid names they had for the ice cream dishes, but
after he tasted Phiz’s favourite “Slap and Tickle”–with chocolate ice cream and
brandy–he only opened his mouth for eating. He readily admitted they were
fabulous recipes. And the shop itself was a bizarre little corner of Soho. In
any visit, he might see tourists, Turkish families ranging through three
generations, old age pensioners, guys wearing leather collars under their
zipped jackets, men in clown costume, and once he’d even stumbled into what
looked like a party for guys built like rugby players. Or maybe they really were
rugby players.
And
there was always plenty of smiling at With A Kick. Like Curtis said,
bizarre. Curtis tried to keep pretty cheerful, but sometimes he was just too
fucking busy, even if and when he had things to smile about. But if it was
gonna happen, it’d probably be around that amazing shop.
Things
had gone well so far on his daily round. The grocer’s delivery was quick,
leaving him time to collect the coffee machine earlier than expected. He’d have
been more or less in time for the hotel’s prawns, but then a bus broke down in
the middle of Charing Cross Road, and Curtis’ van got stuck in the traffic.
When he finally drove his van up the small service road around the back of the
hotel, he could see a handful of kitchen staff standing in the back yard. Maybe
they were just outside having a ciggie, rather than waiting for a few boxes of
prawns to arrive. When the largest man among them spun around to glare at
Curtis’ approach, Curtis knew the ciggie theory was blown to hell.
“Got
here as soon as I could,” he called as he scrambled out of the van. He swung
open the back doors of the van, making lots of noise about it.
“Told
the boss you weren’t reliable,” the big man said. It was a definite sneer. He
sauntered across the yard, dressed in the white kitchen jacket and check
trousers that announced he was a chef, swaggering with the weight of his own
importance. Curtis’ description of the man would have been far less
complimentary: the chef was a hulking great lump of homophobic lard, and he and
Curtis always ended up trading insults. One day, Curtis was gonna wallop him,
even though he was three times Curtis’ size. Brave talk? Oh yeah. Curtis
was afraid the chef would just bounce like a punch ball, and swing right back.
“I’m
usually here on time,” Curtis said, trying to keep the anger out of his voice.
“So are you gonna give me a hand with the boxes?”
“You’re
the delivery boy.” The chef shrugged, and leant against the side of the van. He
gave a cold, ugly grin as Curtis lugged the first box into his arms. “That’s
what you’re fucking paid for.”
“And
you’re paid for resting your fat arse on my van?” Curtis cursed his big mouth
the minute the words were out.
The
chef straightened, his face red. This close to Curtis, he loomed over him. “You
wanna make something of it, you won’t be delivering here again, kid.”
“You
didn’t sign the contract, you don’t call the shots, mate–”
“I
mean, mate,” the chef broke in, his voice a menacing rasp yet loud enough
to be heard by everyone else. “Broken fingers aren’t fit to lift your fucking
fag dick, let alone a box of prawns.”
The
fury and hurt rose like a wave of scarlet heat through Curtis’ body. Not that
he wasn’t used to his fair share of homophobic abuse, but things had definitely
improved since he’d built up a network around Soho and the Square. And it
wasn’t like he minced about in sequinned Dr Martens. It really was only morons
like this who still couldn’t get their thick head around their own prejudice.
Cadeaux
-- Cadeau
reçu État de l’alimentation hebdomadaire
-- Classement
Power Stone 
-- Power
stone