章 2: Chapter 2
He took a step forward, planning a suitably crisp reply to the fat git’s total
absence of human civility, let alone any nod to political correctness. The chef
glared back and balled his fists. So that’s how it goes. The sniping was
over. Curtis took a deep breath and wondered who would put the bits of him back
in the van and get him home after the inevitable pummelling.
A
punch came out of nowhere, at least that was how it seemed. The one thing
Curtis knew was that neither he nor the fat git had thrown it. Curtis stared,
astounded, as a fist landed on the chef’s jaw. It was like a movie: he watched
each step like it was in slow motion. The fist hit the nose–the sound of
slapped flesh and crunched bone followed a fraction afterwards–then the chef’s
head twisted sharply back and to the side. His eyes were full of angry shock
and his mouth gaped wide, his cheek crushed flat on the side of the blow.
Curtis even imagined the soundtrack swelling into a cymbal crash as the man’s
knees buckled and he slumped back against the side of the van. Slowly, he slid
down to the ground.
“Sonofabitch!”
came a man’s curse. Curtis whirled to see a stranger grimacing and cradling his
right wrist in his left hand. He caught Curtis’ gaze and grinned ruefully.
“Haven’t hit a guy for a long time, I’m obviously outta practice.” He had an
American accent, with a very slight southern drawl.
Curtis
stared at him. “What the fuck d’you think you’re doing?”
The
man did a double-take. “What d’you thinkI’m doing?” He nodded sharply
at the chef, currently wheezing against the passenger door. Blood dripped into
his hand, which he cradled at his nose, and dribbled on down his white uniform.
“Shutting up that sewer-mouthed sonofabitch, that’s what.”
Curtis
did a quick scope out of the area. The other staff had rather miraculously
vanished at the first sign of trouble, though Curtis suspected that if the chef
had been less of a turd, they might have stayed around to help out. Instead, he
was pretty sure they thought the pig deserved everything he got. But whether
that meant being beaten up by some weird Transatlantic stranger…
Curtis
peered back at the stranger. He didn’t look like one of the porters or kitchen
staff. Rather incongruously, he was dressed in smart suit trousers, pristine
white shirt with sleeves rolled up to the elbows, and a silk waistcoat. Curtis
looked quickly at the man’s shoes, because for him, that was the real mark of a
person. And then he laughed aloud.
The
man frowned at him. “What’s so funny?”
“Cowboy
boots,” Curtis said, his words shaky through the laughter. “You’re dressed like
posh totty but you’re wearing cowboy boots!” They were smart ones, mind you, in
supple, expensive-looking black leather with attractive stitching on the top.
But they weren’t exactly what you’d usually accessorise with smart evening
wear. Like Curtis would know…but, still.
“Posh
totty?”
Curtis
shrugged. “Usually refers to girls, but I think you qualify as well. Means
smart looking, expensive clothes, usually a posh voice…” And cute, cute, cute
his mind cackled in the background.
The
man frowned again, glanced down at himself and then laughed. “These clothes
ain’t my usual look. I play piano in the dining room and I’m on call for a
business lunch event. They like me to wear full costume even for rehearsal.”
“Boots
and all?”
For
the first time, wariness flickered in the man’s eyes. “You have some kinda
fixation. The boots are definitely mine, my pride and joy. Where I go, they
go.” He bent quickly and gracefully at the knees and scooped something up off
the ground behind him. “This, too.”
A
cowboy hat. A cowboy hat? Curtis watched the man perch it back on his
head–where Curtis had to admit it looked like it had belonged since birth–and
wondered what part of the time travel universe he’d stepped into. He snuck a more
searching look over the man himself, rather than his clothes. He was a couple
of inches taller than Curtis but much more strongly built. Broad shoulders
hinted at a lot of power in his arms and long, lean back. His skin was the kind
of white that looked good tanned, compared to Curtis’ naturally darker tone. He
was clean-shaven with wide grey eyes, and his dark blond hair curled down over
his ears. It all framed strong, not traditionally handsome features. His mouth
was perhaps too wide, his nose bent in the middle as if he made a habit of
punching chefs on the nose and a couple of them had got a return blow in. And
so when had Curtis become a casting scout for Calvin Klein? He shook himself
for getting carried away. But it was a striking face regardless, and Curtis
felt a small frisson of excitement run down his spine. Jesus, get a grip!
But he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had sex, proper sex that was, with
another human being, not just wanking off to a magazine so he didn’t forget
what other things his dick was hanging there for. Now he was eyeing up a stranger
in a seedy back yard at half past eight in the morning.
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