Overview
It takes more than a shared past to make a future together.
When Kwesi—Kez—Zakari, cardiology consultant secretary at St. Cross Children's Hospital, hears that his aunt's building has caught fire, his settled life is turned upside down. Not only is his aunt now homeless, but he's also thrust back in contact with someone from his past—someone he's been trying to forget for five years...and failed miserably.
Callum Wright never seems to get things right. He needs to do one more wrong thing before he can get his life back in order. Instead, he undergoes a literal trial by fire, and choosing the path of good returns his old friend to his life. Kez's council-estate-to-professional-world transformation reminds Callum of how he's never been able to get anything right...least of all his feelings for the man.
Kez hasn't got over the reckless act of betrayal that caused their separation five years ago. Atoning for the guilt he still harbours at having turned his back on his friend in the past, he helps Callum get his future in some sort of order—a difficult feat when all those quashed feelings resurface for a man who can't, and shouldn't, ever be trusted.
All Kez can do is repeat that this time, he really, seriously, most definitely, won't be fooled again.
Reader advisory: This book contains references to drugs, threats of violence and scenes of fire and the aftermath of fire. There are references to male sex workers, homophobic insults and verbal abuse of a disabled character.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781786518347 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Totally Entwined Group |
| Publication date: | 08/27/2019 |
| Series: | St. Cross , #2 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 241 |
| File size: | 990 KB |
About the Author
Brought up in a relatively small town in Hertfordshire, C F White managed to do what most other residents try to do and fail—leave.
Studying at a West London university, she realised there was a whole city out there waiting to be discovered, so, much like Dick Whittington before her, she never made it back home and still endlessly searches for the streets paved with gold, slowly coming to the realisation they’re mostly paved with chewing gum. And the odd bit of graffiti. And those little circles of yellow spray paint where the council point out the pot holes to someone who is supposedly meant to fix them instead of staring at them vacantly whilst holding a polystyrene cup of watered-down coffee.
She eventually moved West to East along that vast District Line and settled for pie and mash, cockles and winkles and a bit of Knees Up Mother Brown to live in the East End of London; securing a job and creating a life, a home and a family.
Having worked in Higher Education for most of her career, a life-altering experience brought pen back to paper after she’d written stories as a child but never had the confidence to show them to the world. Having embarked on this writing malarkey, C F White cannot stop. So strap in, it’s gonna be a bumpy ride...
Read an Excerpt
Copyright © C F White 2019. All Rights Reserved, Totally Entwined Group Limited, T/A Pride Publishing.
The yellow toy candy egg that was perched on the shabby chest of drawers wobbled with every foot stomp from outside. It stared at him. Mocked him. Forced him back to a life he’d tried escaping.
Pacing the dishevelled bedroom in his fifth-floor flat, Callum scraped his hair back and tied it into a messy topknot. With nothing more than a pull-out bed and a wardrobe, the space was so small that his uneasy strides took him full circle. This bloke cannot get here quick enough.
He had to swat away the beads of sweat sprinkling his bottom lip with the ball of his thumb—his fingers were useless with trembling. He wiped his hands down his ripped jeans then rubbed his palms together, needing his hands back at full function. Get a fucking grip. It’ll all be over in a minute. Adrenaline had him jumping on the spot and the crash of his heart pained his chest with every energetic leap.
Fuck. All. This. Shit.
Deep thuds from above and below pounded louder, like a herd of fucking elephants were marching down the communal stairway opposite his single occupancy. Why can’t these people use the damn fucking lifts?
Catching his reflection in the smeared mirror hanging on the wardrobe by one rusty nail, Callum paused. Not for thought—more for context. He glanced away just as quickly. The clothes strewn about the room covered every inch of the grey tiled carpet and his fraying rucksack propped up by the door was ready and waiting for his swift exit. His stomach growled, which temporarily masked the heavy stomps from outside. At least after this, he’d have a bit of dough and could buy a decent meal. He’d had enough of the tinned crap from the food bank.
The candy egg caught his eye again. Just one? No one would know. Might take the edge off.
Fuck. He needed gloves. He ransacked the flat—every room, every drawer, every cupboard, under every discarded item of clothing—stopping in the living area for composure. He checked in his stone-washed-jeans pockets, a last resort. Come on! Snatching his bag, he then ripped open the zip with trembling fingers. He hung it upside down over the once-red fabric sofa that was now stained with varying amounts of he didn’t want to know what. Nothing of interest fell out. Just the two throwaway phones. He checked the display on one, then switched it off, smacked it against his leg to release the SIM card and stamped on it with his steel-toe-capped boot.
The front door rattled on its hinges and Callum’s heart leapt into his throat along with a sizeable amount of bile. He peered through to his bedroom just in time to witness the plastic egg falling from the chest of drawers and being captured within the soft cotton of a tattered jumper. Bollocks. He couldn’t touch it. He couldn’t. Not without the damn gloves.
Bang, bang, bang. Knuckles rapped the front door, drilling through Callum’s temple and whatever resolve he might still have had left. Thank fuck.
Pulling himself together, he trampled over the clutter to flick the latch up, making the clang ricochet off the oppressive walls. He nudged open the door just enough to fit his face through the gap.
An Indian man stared back at him, eyes wide. “Gotta get out, son. Fire.”
“What?” Callum clung onto the door, unwilling to open it farther.
“Leave everything. It’s spreading.” The man, Callum suddenly recalled, lived three doors down from him in one of the larger flats. This was the longest conversation they’d ever had—Callum had become a bit of a recluse.
As his grip released, the door drifted open wider to reveal a horde of families rushing down the fire escape steps opposite. All panic-stricken. No forming an orderly queue. His neighbours halted up ahead by the stairwell—four young girls all clinging to their mum’s skirt, glaring in frustration as the woman yelled something to him in her mother tongue.
The man responded to her in a quick-fire language that Callum couldn’t decipher, then, with fear apparent in his dark eyes, gripped Callum’s arm. “Please. Come.”
“Wait.” Callum held up a finger, when the sudden stench of thick smoke drifted to his nostrils. He coughed.
“Now!” The man yanked him again, but soon gave up when fog clouded around his family. He left, rushed to their aid and ushered them all down the stairs.
Callum’s eyes streamed. He couldn’t leave. He couldn’t. Not yet. Not now, for fuck’s sake! He looked through the flat to his bedroom, to his bag, his stuff, his life. The plastic toy egg—
Then he slammed the door shut behind him and lunged for the staircase.