Wednesday, January 6, 2016
Gay Lovers Down Under
Gay Lovers Down Under (MM) by Berengaria Brown
Gay Travel Inc. book 3
Blurb: Tyler Robbins, the owner of Gay Travel Inc., decides to send four of his best—and single—travel agents to different continents to report on romantic travel venues there. Quentin Wood is sent to Australia but after twenty-two hours of flights and a fourteen hour time zone change he’s exhausted. Add to that he can’t understand a word of the mangled English his guide, Justin Cook, uses.
Juz likes the look of his sexy new client, if he’d just relax a little. Juz is determined to show the man he calls Woody all the sights, including some more intimate personal ones.
Quentin can’t get his head around the idea of driving two thousand miles in two days to visit some place where the temperature sits above one hundred degrees for six months straight. Tyler has sent him to Hell. But if this is Hell, that means Justin’s the devil, and he’s a mighty attractive devil.
Buy link: http://www.bookstrand.com/book/gay-lovers-down-under
Justin Cook, Juz or Juzza to his mates, shook his long blond hair off his face, left his red dual-cab Holden ute in a No Parking area, and walked into the hotel. He marched straight up to the chick in the snazzy suit behind the teak reception counter and said, “I’m here to pick up Quentin Wood. Can you tell him to get his ass into gear? I’m in a no parking zone.”
He headed back outside, relieved that no interfering sod had given him a parking ticket, and leaned his butt on the front grill of his truck. It was a sunny day, although bloody cold of course. July was midwinter and the coldest month of the year here in Sydney, but it was also relatively dry, so good for sightseeing.
Juz stared back into the hotel, but there was no sign of his client appearing yet. A bunch of twittering females emerged, all teetering along in ultra-high heels. He didn’t understand how women could balance on those things. He looked down at the thongs on his feet and smiled. There was nothing more comfortable to walk in than a nice pair of rubber thongs, although he would wear boots when they were in some places in the desert. Mostly snakes and spiders would run away if he made a noise, but he wasn’t paid enough to risk a snakebite.
Ah, this’d be his client now. The man was around his own height, six foot even, with a baseball cap covering most of his brown hair, and wearing a plain white T-shirt over his jeans. He carried a small backpack and a blue windcheater.
Juz straightened up and called, “Hey, Woody, over here.”
The man just stared at him, and then took a few hesitant steps in his direction.
“Come on, mate. This’s a no-parking zone. I don’t want a flaming ticket. Shift your ass.”
The man walked closer and asked, “Are you Mr. Cook, my guide?”
“Correct. Let’s go.” Juz walked to the car door and went to get in, only to find his client standing right behind him. “Other side, mate. This is Australia. We drive on the left.”
The man looked confused, blushed, and hurried around the ute to climb in. Juz turned the ignition on and pointed to the seat belt. “It’s the law here. You have to wear a seat belt.”
“Yes, front seat passengers and drivers have to wear a seat belt at home.”
“Backseat as well here, although they’re pretty laid back in the Northern Territory. It’s only been the law there for a couple of years, and they’ve only recently started enforcing it. Here, the cops’ll fine you as soon as look at you. I’ll take you over the coat hanger first, and then around to the Opera House, okay?”
“Sydney Harbor Bridge.”
“Oh, yes, thank you, sir.”
Juz shook his head. These Yanks were all mad. “We don’t use sir or ma’am here except for the military, okay?”
“What do you call people? And what did you call me before?”
“Woody. Isn’t that what your mates at school called you?” Juz slid through a nice little gap in the traffic and across to the correct lane to go over the bridge.
“No, si—so what should I call you?”
“Only me mum calls me Justin. Everyone uses Juz or Juzza sometimes. Here’s your first really good look at the bridge. When we get to the Opera House you’ll get some much better pictures of it, though.”
“My name’s Quentin. Part of my job is to take a lot of pictures. I can just delete any that are unsatisfactory. Did Tyler mention anything to you about the purpose of this journey?”
“You’re supposed to advertise a romantic holiday down under for gays. Not a problem. I’m gay and can take you to all the best bars and nightclubs even though I hate them. Meanwhile I’ll drive you around Sydney today and tomorrow and then we’ll head outback. You want to see the rock, right?”
“Uluru, Ayers Rock, Yulara.”
“Oh, yes please.”
“About three thousand ks—kilometers—say thirty hours give or take. Leave here bright and early Friday, be there Sunday arvo, no sweat.”
“Wait. What? We’re driving? Three thousand kilometers in thirty hours? That’s um, getting up toward two thousand miles in thirty hours? You’re insane.”
“Once we get past Port Augusta there won’t be much traffic apart from the occasional road train.”
Quentin had been watching out the window, taking pictures of the harbor. Now he turned and looked at Juz. Juz could see his movements out of the corner of his eye even while paying attention to the traffic, which wasn’t too bad anyway.
“We can sit down and plan the next few days later when I can look at maps instead of taking pictures. And have some coffee.”
The last sentence was softer, almost muttered. Juz got the idea his client was struggling to cope with everything.
“Still feeling a tad jetlagged are you, mate?’”