Excerpt Three: Quill

Quill From Chapter Ten

Quill
By Neal Drinnan

"The arsehole, the evil fucking bastard," yelled Woodrow, ready to fling the book across the room before he remembered it belonged to Joanna. No way was he buying another copy of this. He wasn't throwing five cents' worth of royalties in Elliot Bernard's direction.

... Wolfgang was a pique-assiette; he stole from the plates of others. In a restaurant he would choose not by looking at the menu but by peering at other diners' dishes when they emerged from the kitchen. "I'll have what he's having."

As a child he would have desired his sibling's presents over his own but even his insecurities were never that static. With mental disorders there is medication but for jealousy, nothing. Just endless rows, nasty transparent games, and, ultimately, violence...

Woodrow grunted. It was past two a.m. and he was still reading. He had work tomorrow and that piece-of-shit Elliot had him fretting over this rubbish.

And as for violence! He's only ever hit Blaise twice, and he'd been drunk both times. Just a brisk smack across the face -- and not in front of anyone else. Blaise used to literally hang off his friends. Hugging and kissing them like some prissy nineteen-year-old. He only did it to wind up Woodrow. Twice he'd slapped him, before Blaise said that if it ever happened again, it was all over. Well, Woodie never had done it again. There are much more subtle ways of controlling your partner's idiotic ways than a whack across the face. With a quick smack though at least it's honest, you know where you stand. And it's over. The pressure subsides.

Author Neal Drinnan

Woodie wondered if perhaps Blaise had been reading Je Louse too. That would go some way to explaining his extraordinary behaviour of late, but staying out all night was pushing it too far. He must be with someone. Woodrow went to the cupboard in search of a Valium or something. There was no way writing a book like Elliot's could possibly be moral and he was already wondering if it was legal. This sort of libellous stuff was why we had lawyers -- and if Elliot Bernard's way of getting to be a big, fat, rich pig was by ruining other people's lives then it was about time something was done. As he read on, he even began to feel protective of Blaise, though some of the explicit intimacies described raised other questions. Questions which could have impacted on his own health.

... Pascal had an almost marsupial mode of seduction. It started out all cute ‘n' cuddly but turned very savage, very fast. Kissing you and wetting you, moving down to the cock and formatting it with his mouth for another cavity.

"You're not wearing a condom, are you, Humphrey?"

"I'm just putting one on now."

"Don't!" Pascal's voice sounded like the Devil's own in the darkened bedroom. Nothing but the buzz of sexual possibility could be felt in their intimate space, and Humphrey paused as if the voice of the Devil was the sweet voice of God.

"You've got the Devil in you tonight, Pascal."

"God, the Devil... don't you know they're the same thing? Two ends of the same stick, now give me yours!"

"I don't like to, baby. You know that freaks me out."

But it didn't matter whether Pascal knew that or not. He was sliding back onto his lover's cock, a cock that had hardened even more with this new, forbidden, development...

"Oh God!" cried Woodrow, his mind ready to snap. "Who's to say any of this is true anyway? It's only a novel, for Christ's sake, it doesn't claim to be true. But why a name so similar to mine? Pascal could be anyone, but Wolfgang -- I'm not paranoid. God, tell me I'm not paranoid." The only way Woodie would ever know was to read on. He tried to read ahead; he tried to find the future passage he was already dreading. He hadn't been able to locate the notorious party, nor the specific incident, but the bastard had hinted at it, tortured Woodie with the promise of something nasty. "If Blaise read that... Oh God, it didn't bear thinking about" -- and on that depressing note he began to feel the dulling brainwaves from the sedative. He took a drink of Scotch with him to bed. If Blaise wasn't there, who was to know about his lapse? He was worried about Blaise. Really worried. He loved that little marsupial, that glittery-eyed fella he'd been with for years. But even love had rules, and Blaise had agreed to play by them a long time ago.