The Glass Ceiling: Sky High Scaffolders, #6

ABOUT:

Chris is a rising star in the world of art.

His sculptures may look like junk, but each piece sells for the price of a modest English home. A famous artist, a fabulous baker, and a caring BFF to the men in his life.

Why can’t he find a special man who appreciates all his attributes?

Frank is so much more than a tattooed hunky construction worker with a quirky smile.

When he first met the artist Frank had just been dumped after ten years in a one-sided relationship.

He was devastated.

Still in shock over the breakup, when the right man entered his life at the wrong time Frank couldn’t cope with the issues it brought up for him.

Cruel fate brought the men together at the wrong time.

Both men held on to secrets to protect themselves.

Revealing the truth when they meet again threatens their second chance.

This novel contains creative, sensitive men engaging in sizzling hot passion. Plus lots of feel-good moments and a happy ending.

This book can be read as a standalone.

It is book 6 in the Sky High Scaffolds series and is set in contemporary Britain.

It contains a great deal of Connor and Lee plus other characters from the rest of the series so

you will enjoy all those cameos and references to other events if you have read:

•  Our Secret Wedding

•  Tread the Boards

•  A Secret Boyfriend

The story is largely in British English with American spelling and should be easy to follow for readers of English around the world.

CHAPTER ONE

FRANK

AFTER THE INITIAL SHOCK, Frank did what any man should do in such circumstances.

Hello, boss, I won't be in today, mate. Sorry, it's short notice. Frank coughed. One of those coughs that made it clear to anyone listening that he didn't actually have a cough.

Right. Connor sounded half asleep, or at least as if he hadn't talked to anybody yet this morning.

I'm supposed to collect a vehicle from the yard and then pick up Ben, Alfie, and Joe. Phone propped under an ear, Frank felt a little guilty as he plodded into his kitchen to make coffee. At six o'clock in the morning, Frank couldn't expect his manager to recall the work schedule that he'd planned instantly. 

Okay, Frank, I'll sort that. You aren't the only person who can drive an SHS van. Do you think you will be back tomorrow? And am I putting this down as sick leave?

Sick leave simply meant a day without pay instead of one his twenty-eight days' worth of statutory annual leave. According to the company rules, scaffolders had to apply for days off in advance, and it seemed pretty shitty to call upon the day and leave the team in the lurch unless you were feeling ill.

As just one of sixty operatives at Sky High Scaffolds, Frank was certain they'd get by just fine without him at a moment's notice. In the same way, he'd get by as a single guy with no warning that his relationship was about to crash into the rocks and die. 

Frank had been dumped. 

Among other things, he also had that in common with Connor, at the other end of the phone call. They were both senior scaffolders. They both worked for Sky High Scaffolds. They had both been dumped by the same person, although almost eleven years separated the two incidents.

It took days for it to sink in; twelve days, so far. It was Thursday, already, of the second week. Not usually so slow to catch on — especially after being told in no uncertain terms in a local café over a mug of steaming tea — Frank first spent a few days in denial. When the finality of it hit home, he arranged an impromptu day off work intending to get so drunk that he'd be far too hungover to drive the next day. He'd need two days off work for this bender.

I am feeling a bit rough; hopefully, be back tomorrow, but don't count on it. Frank attempted a sniff, making it evident to anyone listening that he did not cough, and he also had no nasal congestion whatsoever. I have a bad head and not the drink-related type. Oh, and a sore throat. I don't know if they're related. The sore throat claim may have been overdoing it.

After canceling work, Frank decided to start by taking his coffee back to bed. Half-lying, half-sitting in bed, with the cheerful September sunlight brightening up the room through the thin curtains, he watched morning TV and caught up with social media. He read the comments of too many football pundits and looked at a crateload of cute kitten pics.

Woodworking in his shed offered Frank his usual route for escapism, but a drastic change of life circumstances required a drastic alternative route of avoiding reality.

Finding himself single for the first time in ten years. 

After being dumped on a Saturday morning, twelve days earlier.

After ten years together.

Frank started to come to terms with his new solo status and the desire to remove all evidence that Ash O'Donnell had ever entered his life or apartment. Clearing all the reminders wouldn't take long. They'd never lived together and had only ever left a toothbrush at each other's homes, nothing else; not so much as a pair of slippers or clean underwear.

He could get a dog: loyal, faithful, and a man's best friend. A dog just might fill some of the gaping space in his life. The void that Ash had only partially filled anyway, having only ever been a part-time partner.

Frank flipped onto his photo album on the phone. Digital evidence that he hadn't imagined the weekends and holidays together.

The signs of a failing relationship had been there for a long time, and Frank had ignored them. Ash wanted to keep the relationship on the down-low. Ash didn't want the world, their families, and friends to think of them as a couple, which should've been a sign. Ash didn't think Frank was good enough: a lowly construction worker, a scaffolder who lacked ambition. It now seemed that it had always been just a temporary affair for Ash. 

Frank wished he'd known.

Ten fucking years.

Nine years, forty-eight weeks, and three days, to be precise.

Gone.

The looming tenth anniversary would inevitably bring up the question of what the future held. Marriage? Kids? Living together? Perhaps even just acknowledging that they were actually dating and not just friends. Yes. Yes. Yes. Frank wanted all that with the right person, which Ash, apparently, was not.

The photographs remained as the only tangible evidence that it hadn't been a dream. Even amidst these photos, little suggested they were more than friends. Not much by way of displays of affection, and certainly nothing of the X-rated type that a lesser man could use as revenge porn.

Not even on their swinging profile.

Frank got custody of their joint profile by default. It didn't require a divorce court on the website where their membership as a couple linked to his email address. He reached to pick up his tablet. Without even leaving his bed, he could delete their joint hookup profile. 

Not that they'd ever actually gone through with it.

Never had a real threesome.

Never hit the final approve button on their profile page.

None of it ever went live for the world to see. They enjoyed sharing hot fantasies just between themselves. They set up a profile while talking about what might happen if they met someone. Sometimes they'd amend the profile. The very thought of posting it, along with discussing it, got them hot and invariably led to some of their best sex.

Couple seeks a single woman to join them.

Ash was bisexual.

Sure, to many men, it may have seemed ideal. And Frank had to admit it was fun.

A bisexual girlfriend who wanted other women to share their bed. It remained in the realm of fantasy, though; threesomes were something they talked about but never did. Even so, Ash wouldn't entertain the idea of another man in their bedroom. She'd shut down any conversation about bisexual men. In the realms of fancy, only one of them was allowed a same-sex imaginary partner that they could talk about. Frank kept his thoughts to himself. 

Single, Frank, could change the profile and hit the approve button. Perhaps that could provide the distraction he needed to get over Ash. 

Removing all of Ash's images from the profile left just one of himself. A body shot cropped to remove his head. He wouldn't want anyone he knew to recognize him. 

He selected a particularly flattering photograph, taken on a beach. They had been mucking about by the sea and got completely soaked in their clothes, which clung like a second skin.

In the photo, through the translucent, wet, white T-shirt, his tattoos were visible, as were his erect nipples. But not so you could identify him, not by his partially obscured, clammy-cotton-covered tattoos. Or the nipples. 

Looking as if he'd stepped out of a wet T-shirt competition, he had to smile. Though he thought it himself, he did look rather sexy in that image. It would get his attention, if he were someone else.

Amending the profile distracted Frank from the pain, hurt, and humiliation of Ash's rejection. If Ash had left clothes in the closet, Frank could have indulged in their cathartic destruction. The only thing they'd left in each other's apartments was a toothbrush. Instead, he removed every reference to Ash from the profile, so it was just him. Tall, muscular, tattoos, non-smoker.

He'd never filled in the eye color. Who the hell bases their choice of meeting up with a total stranger on eye color?

And the question of definition flummoxed him.

Their couple profile had said F: bisexual, M: straight.

Despite the inaccuracy, it worked for the approved-by-consensus version of their fantasy.

Single man seeks ... someone. It had always been women before.

Straight. Gay. Bisexual. Bicurious. Other. Prefer not to say. 

Frank considered the options as they were presented. It seemed a massive step for someone who'd told no one but his girlfriend, who had refused to hear.

Up until eleven days ago, he genuinely believed Ash and he were going to be together forever. Frank had assumed he'd never experience anything physical with a man. He thought the tenth anniversary would be significant. He thought the swinging, threesome idea would remain just that: a sexy dream. He'd never imagined placing this kind of advert about himself as a single man: as a single bisexual man. 

Before choosing bisexual to describe himself, he scanned the pictures of men seeking men. Nice guys with smiling faces who said they enjoyed candlelit dinners and country walks intermingled with contrasting headless torso and dick shots from men seeking hookups.

Frank wondered about deleting his profile completely. He wasn't even sure what he wanted. The explicit casual sex profiles scared, intimidated, and excited him.

He wasn't that kind of guy. He never was the sort who could just hook up with a stranger online. At least he didn't think so.

But could he date these gay men who were looking for more when he had so little to offer?

No experience at all.

With only the scantiest information about himself and a sexy torso shot, he changed the setting to 'single man seeking man', and hit approve.

CHAPTER TWO

CHRIS

WOMEN, CHRIS GRUMBLED. Only because he had too much respect for Apple technology, he placed his phone down on the table instead of throwing it across the room. That, and the cost of repairs.

Tom placed his mug on the table. I know: can't live with them; can't live without them. He sat down at the kitchen table opposite Chris. So what did I miss that got you so riled?

That was Steph. 

The rolling bells of a subtle event alert sounded from Chris's phone. He stood up and walked over to the allocated cupboard for medicines, reached inside for his morning dose, and absent-mindedly popped one in his mouth as he did every day at exactly this time and had done for years. How come you're late anyway?

Am I late? I'm not late. Tom nodded toward Chris's phone. It's ten o'clock. We said ten o'clock, didn't we? Tom asked. I just came home directly from my last job, but it ran over time. I couldn't leave their kitchen in the state I found it. They had a disaster with their popcorn maker. I don't know how they did it. There were splashes of oil up the wall and black lumps everywhere. Did you know soft white popcorn can be transformed into a black hard rock? It was like charcoal. I suspect they were close to making diamonds. 

You'd be surprised about what I know about popcorn.

Somehow, I don't think I would be surprised. Anyway, don't change the subject. Tell me, what did Stephanie say to get you so riled up? 

We were talking about events that we go to as artists. It's my own fault for bemoaning the fact that I don't have a regular man on my arm. Next thing I know, she's all over wanting to find me one. She wants to introduce me to all her gay friends and sign me up to a dating site. She also wants to know what my perfect companion would be like. She says he should be my best friend. Chris tapped at his phone to turn off the alarm before it sounded and reset it for the following day. A routine he could do in his sleep.

Tom blew lightly across his mug of tea, sending the steam billowing across the table. Doesn't she know that I'm your best friend?

Apparently not. Chris swung his hands, open palms up. It's precisely what I told her. I don't need a companion or best friend, I've got plenty of men who step into that role. What I need is a tiger in the bedroom, and my life is very sparse on those.

Tell me about it, Chris. Who doesn't want a big rugged bear to ravish them? It's not about having somebody to walk down the red carpet alongside or having someone on your arm at an art exhibition's private view. It's about having an animal in the bedroom.

Chris chuckled. That's exactly why you're one of my best friends. Same wavelength and all that.

So, what we need is to get you laid. Tom pushed his phone into the center of the table; they both knew what that meant. There were a lot of apps designed for exactly that purpose.

I'm not sure that the casual hookup app situation is quite me, Tom. You know I don't judge anyone who does that kind of thing, but it's not me.

Talk about not judging! That's what you do when you make assumptions about the men who have profiles on there and say it's not your thing. Tom crossed his arms and sat up a little straighter. I know you don't judge me for my casual, floozy ways. And I'm honest about it; that's all I'm looking for: a casual thing. But these are ordinary guys on here, just like the men you know in real life. Many of them are looking for the same thing as you. Whatever that is.

Having lost the love of his life in tragic circumstances a few years earlier, Tom wasn't ready for serious dating again. He was getting there, though. Chris certainly didn't judge Tom. Pulling his life together and getting things on track, he'd moved on to a considerably better place, mentally, than a year earlier, when he barely had the will to live. 

Chris could imagine, within the next year or so, Tom doing proper dating instead of a stream of casual hookups.

I've already met every local guy around here, so why don't we put in the postcode for your art studio and see what men are around there. Tom opened his phone. He angled it so that he and Chris could look together. 

How is that possible? I thought they were location-based in relation to your phone?

It may have been easier if they'd been sitting next to each other, but they leaned across the table and looked together.

We'll use a different app. Well, a website, actually. Tom clicked a folder on his screen that took them to a place holding every gay hookup app available — and some straight ones too. He looked up at Chris. I haven't got them all running at all times. They'd drain my battery.

He pressed a few buttons to activate one of the apps and then refreshed the screen. Wow. A pretty good turnout for this area. I always knew your studio was located in a gay ghetto, Chris. Tom looked up and grinned. Actually, I've looked many times when I've been over there, so I'm pretty familiar with these profiles. Tom pushed the phone over to Chris before sitting back in his seat and turning his attention to his hot cup of tea.

So what is this, exactly? I don't have anything like this on my phone. Chris made a mental note of exactly what app they were using. It wasn't any of the well known gay ones that he knew.

It's not a gay hookup app.

Confused, Chris peered across the table at his buddy.

I kept coming across the same men on those, so I spread my net a bit wider. This is a quick link to a website with quite a diverse catchment. 

Chris returned his attention to the phone. Ordered by proximity to Chris's art studio, the closest guy had only one image on his profile and very little detail. Chris scrolled past and on through a stream of headless torsos and dick pics. And some with no pictures at all. He clicked on settings and saw that Tom's default search was men seeking men, of course, but just for casual sex — no surprise. Chris changed the setting to all men seeking men: a setting that included dating, romance, and friendship.

Most of the images were embarrassingly poor quality, whether due to the low lighting, the reflection of the camera flash on a mirror, or the lack of thought that had gone into the background. A messy bedroom or a dirty bathroom said more about the men than the size of their dick. The lack of a smile didn't help either. 

Is it too much to ask that they display a little bit of artistic flair when taking these photographs? My God, Tom. These are the photographs I'd reject and delete from my phone immediately, not put out as some advert to attract potential, um, friends. 

Tom laughed. I know, right. Same with some of the descriptions. Why didn't they get a literate friend to help them? I know I'm only meeting them for one thing, but if they'd communicate in proper sentences, it'd make life a bit easier.

Why would so many men place unflattering pictures of themselves on websites and hookup apps? It seemed counterintuitive to put up such poor quality pictures when you wanted to get noticed—in a favorable way. Perhaps it's because we're arty types, Tom. If you weren't an actor and I wasn't a sculptor maybe this would appeal a bit more.

Ex-actor, now a businessman, if you don't mind. My domestic house cleaning empire is my new life. And speak for yourself, Chris. This appeals to me a lot. The pictures might not be up to much, and the description might not be up to much either, but I'm not looking for a writer or photographer, I'm looking for someone who's gonna make my legs ache for days afterward.

Soon, Chris had scrolled back to the geographically closest man to his art studio, the tattooed torso in the white T-shirt.

I've met up with some of these, and most of these guys have been on here for a while, but this one is new. Tom's finger tapped the phone. Apparently, he was paying attention, after all.

The profile in question had little detail and only one photograph—a very muscular guy wearing a T-shirt that almost covered his ink. Made