Hooked by the Bell Read online

  Hooked by the Bell

  BY Tanya Chris

  Copyright © 2019 by Tanya Chris

  http://www.tanyachris.com

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author.

  Matt

  Matt Felding crept across the disputed territory onto his neighbor’s property. He’d taken ownership of his family’s raised ranch when his father moved to Thailand with his second wife, and he’d taken ownership of the feud that went with it at the same time. The Feldings had always lived next door to the Le Croixs, but they’d never liked them. Three generations they’d been neighbors, and enemies just as long.

  The current inhabitant of the saltbox next door, one Harper Le Croix, had inherited it when his father died when Harper was only twenty-three, which, if that’d happened to anyone other than Harper Le Croix, Matt would feel sorry about. But it was Harper Le Croix, so he didn’t.

  At the time, he’d gone over to offer his hand and the opportunity to make it right between them, but Harper had proven to be just as much of a stubborn, misinformed ass as his father, refusing to admit that the three-foot-wide strip of lawn in question was, and always had been, Felding land. So after an honorable six month cease-fire, Matt had resumed hostilities. No one would ever accuse a Felding of backing down. Not his grandfather, not his father, and not him.

  Once on Le Croix property, Matt moved fast. After that last prank, Harper had sworn he was going to take out a restraining order, and he was such a floppy-eared jack-a-mule, he might’ve done it too. Coward. Always quick to run to the authorities, even when they were twelve and Matt had absolutely not intended to drive his face into the mud like that. They’d been playing football, and Harper had the ball. That was how football was played! It wasn’t Matt’s fault the field was so muddy or that Harper’s face was so white.

  Matt darted across the lawn to plaster his back to the side of the Le Croix domicile. He slid along the wall, staying out of sight in case Harper happened to look out his window, until he reached the back corner, tugging his hose behind him all the way like a pet snake slithering at his heel.

  When he’d spotted the open window on the second story, he hadn’t been able to resist. That was Harper’s bedroom on that corner, he was sure of it, though he hadn’t been allowed upstairs since the day he’d clogged the toilet with a tuna fish sandwich. Which had been an accident! Well, the part where the toilet overflowed was an accident. The part where he’d flushed a tuna fish sandwich wasn’t, but at eight could he really have been expected to understand the consequences?

  With a bonzai scream, he jumped away from the wall and activated the spray attachment on the hose, aiming it at the open window. Water hit the screen with a blast. The screen gave way, and before Matt could cut off the water, Harper appeared in the window. He took a face full of water as he slammed the window shut. Matt released his grip on the trigger. Maybe attaching the hose to the pressure washer had been going too far.

  He sprinted for home but didn’t make it before a heavy weight slammed into him, driving him down into the grass. His struggle to free himself from an angry tornado of punishing appendages landed him on his back, looking up at a red-faced, sopping-wet Harper who had a knee planted firmly in the middle of his chest.

  “You fucker.” Harper reared back like he was about to sock him.

  Matt threw his hands up. “Not my face!” He needed his face. He had a costume party to go to Saturday night, and the hostess had promised him there’d be hot guys there.

  “You fucking trashed my room. There’s water all over the fucking floor. My mattress is soaked.”

  “It was just supposed to be some spray. I didn’t think the screen would pop.”

  “You never fucking think.” Harper grabbed his shoulders and jerked them back and forth, so that Matt’s head bounced off the ground a few times.

  “You’ll give me a concussion,” he complained through rattling teeth. Thank God Harper kept his lawn so nice and velvety. He wriggled his lower body in an attempt to escape the bruising force of Harper’s knee. Some guys he might like having on top of him riding him like a fucking cowboy, but not Harper Le Croix, not the guy who already knew how hot he was and didn’t need Matt confirming it, which he was about to do unless Harper either killed him or got off him.

  Harper gave him a last good thump. “I’m serious this time, Felding. I’m putting in a restraining order. You won’t be able to get within fifty feet of me, and where will that leave you?”

  “Fifty feet away from this line.” He pointed to the line of white chalk just to his right. He’d mowed his lawn yesterday after work and had, as always, applied a fresh line of chalk down the correct and legal border.

  “Fuck. I’d give you the three fucking feet if it’d keep you the fuck away from me.” Harper stood up, and Matt took the opportunity to do the same.

  “That’s all you have to do,” he agreed. “Just admit this is the original property line—that your family has been trying to steal from mine for three generations—and I’ll never bother you again.”

  “You can have the three feet of grass if you filthy Feldings need it so bad, but you’ll never get me to lie about it. My grandfather bought every foot of our property, including this one.” Harper stepped over the chalk line.

  “Get off my property.” Matt tugged on his arm, but Harper dug his toes into the grass like he had talons and fended off every attempt Matt made to get him back onto his own land. The fucker was nearly his size and didn’t budge easy.

  “Fine,” he said eventually, winded from tilting at the windmill that was Harper. “If you’re going to stand over there, I’ll stand over here.” He took a spot clearly on Harper’s side of the line and crossed his arms.

  “Fine.” Harper crossed his likewise.

  “Fine.”

  It wasn’t only Harper’s shoulder-length tangle of dirty blond hair that was wet. His basketball shorts were wet too. The water made them heavy, pulling them down so they barely skimmed the points of his hips, his torso completely bare above them. Matt hadn’t seen Harper with his shirt off since gym class back in high school. His chest had changed since then—filled out, grown some hair. Tufts of it poked out from under his arms and a long trail of it ran between his nipples down to the saggy waistband of his shorts, growing thicker as it went like it was pointing the way somewhere.

  Matt could see where it was pointing. The wet fabric clung to what Harper had going on down there, suggesting he wasn’t wearing anything beneath his shorts. Matt whistled a little tune, looking pointedly in the other direction before Harper got the idea Matt liked him or something. He preferred his guys a little less butch and a lot less dishonest about property lines, and whatever Harper preferred didn’t concern him in the least.

  “Must be uncomfortable hanging around in wet shorts,” he tried. He had things to do today besides stand on the Le Croix side of the property line, like pick up his costume for the party Saturday, but a Felding didn’t back down.

  “The sun’ll dry me out fast enough. Speaking of the sun, looks like you’re getting a bit of a sunburn there, whitey?”

  “Who’s calling who whitey?” Matt pawed at the back of his neck. It did feel hot back there. Harper had more of a base layer going on, his torso a toasty tan like a perfectly roasted marshmallow, plus his hair came down over the back of his neck where Matt’s dark hair was trimmed into a tight line right at ear level. Matt might enjoy a guy who was a little femme, but he was all masc himself—five foot eleven (six one on Grindr), a hundred and eighty pounds, and all man.

  “Didn’t you put in hardwood upstairs?” He remembered the van parked outside for a fe
w days last year. “Might want to get right on drying out that floor. Shame if it were ruined.”

  “Don’t think I won’t send you the bill if it is.”

  “So maybe you should go mop it up.” He didn’t need no fucking bill for Harper to get his floors refinished. The number of times they’d taken each other to small claims court over the years—there ought to be a plaque in the lobby recognizing their contribution to the upkeep of the building.

  “Seems like you should mop it up, seeing as you’re the one who got it wet.”

  “You inviting me to your room?” Matt winked at him, just to be annoying. They both knew about each other’s sexuality—Easterly, Georgia was way too small to keep two gay men from finding out about each other—but if there was one thing they could agree on, it was that neither of them was going anywhere near the other’s room.

  “I have no interest in bringing you upstairs,” Harper said, just as Matt had expected him to. “I’m guessing you’re as useless in a bedroom as you are in a classroom.”

  “Take that back.” Insulting his job was going too far.

  “Why should I?”

  “Because if you don’t, I’ll make you.”

  “I’d like to see you come over here and try.”

  Matt lunged, and Harper danced away, leading him on a chase through his own backyard, laughing the whole time as if Matt wasn’t going to open up a new hole in his head when he got his hands on him.

  “Hey, looks like you’re back on your own property,” Harper pointed out. “Guess I won that round.” He jumped over the line, so Matt left him there. That was all he asked—that Harper stay on the other side of the line.

  “I’ve got better things to do than mess with you, Le Croix.”

  “You’re forgetting who started it, Felding.”

  “Started it and ended it. As always.” Matt turned his back and slapped his ass with a resounding smack, taunting Harper with how high and round it was. Even if he bottomed, which he didn’t, he’d never let Harper Le Croix in there. Harper Le Croix could read it and weep.

  “I’m filing that restraining order,” Harper threw at him as he walked away.

  “Yeah, go tell mommy. That always worked out so good.”

  Their mothers were the only reason he and Harper had ever played together to begin with—not because they liked each other. Whenever Matt had complained to his mother about something Harper had done, he’d found himself being marched next door to apologize, as if it were his fault. Then Mrs. Le Croix would make Harper apologize back and the two of them would be sent to “play” which meant grind each other’s faces into the rug while warning each other not to scream. Which had sometimes been pretty fun.

  Harper’s mother lived in California now, so Matt had heard, and his own lived down in Florida. They’d both moved as far away from their crazy ex-husbands and the endless, bitter feud over three feet of grass as they could get, leaving their kids to carry on the battle they’d tried to put an end to. There’d been a time when Matt had wished it would stop too, but now that he was fully grown and could appreciate the very serious issue at stake, nothing would ever overcome the animosity he felt toward his neighbor.

  Harper Le Croix was the enemy. And until he ceded the three feet of grass his family had villainously tried to lay claim to back to its rightful owner—namely Matt—he always would be.

  “Enchanté.” Matt bent forward at the waist to place a debonair kiss on his friend Wendy’s hand. She was dressed like Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz and had tied a blue bow around her bulldog’s neck as if that dog could fool anyone into thinking he was Toto.

  Wendy peered at him, searching for his identity behind the eye patch and dramatically large mustachio. “Matt?”

  “At your service m’lady.” He bowed again, this time bringing the arm that ended in a plastic hook in front of his body with a flourish. The tendrils of his long curly wig brushed at his cheeks before he flipped them back. Long hair was a fucking nuisance.

  “Captain Hook, right? I love it. Not sure what accent you’re going for there, exactly.”

  Neither was he. French? British? Pirate-ish? Well, not American at any rate. American wasn’t nearly rakish enough. He’d pulled out all the stops on this costume, renting it from an actual costume place instead of throwing an Amazon box over his head and calling himself consumer trash or whatever else he could rustle up with zero forethought, which was how he usually rolled.

  The coat on this uncomfortable monstrosity of a costume was a deep burgundy red, festooned with gold braid and brass buttons, reaching nearly to his knees with sleeves so wide he could foresee multiple spilled drinks in his future. The breeches were a basic black, and his ass was sadly hidden by his coattails, but he did have a fierce pair of black leather boots from that year he’d taken riding lessons that almost fit. He just had to keep his weight off his feet, that was all.

  “Where are you keeping the drinks?” he asked in his normal voice, because his charm was wasted on Wendy.

  “I forgot you haven’t been to my new place before. How’s the neighborhood?”

  “Not much has changed. The people who moved into your old place are quiet. I never see them.”

  “I wonder why. You and Harper still at war?”

  “He hasn’t acknowledged my rightful ownership of the disputed property, if that’s what you mean.”

  Wendy sighed. “Just try not to get yourself arrested tonight.”

  “How would I get myself arrested?” That’d only happened once, and it hadn’t been his fault. How could he have known a cop would come by just as he was creeping into the perfect position behind Harper’s bushes? Sure, it looked bad. But Harper could’ve explained if he’d wanted to and saved Wendy the trip downtown to bail him out.

  Wendy sighed again. “The drinks are over there.” She waved to her left, where Matt could see a scrum of people in the dining room.

  He followed her arm and joined the scrum, glad he’d decided to leave the sword at home. Between the wig and the hook, he had plenty to keep track of. When he’d jostled his way up to the front, he mixed himself a rum and Coke to go with his pirate persona, then forged his way back into the living room to plant his ass in an empty armchair. Good God, his feet.

  He surveyed the room as he sipped his drink. Straight. Republican. Straight. Woman. Woman. Lesbian woman. Stranger who was probably straight. Stranger who was definitely straight. Stranger who might be gay, but his costume sucked. Matt wasn’t wasting the effort he’d put in on someone who thought a tinfoil hat counted as a costume. Straight. Gay but been there, done that. Woman. Woman. Big woman.

  Whoa there, Matty. Back that right up. That wasn’t just any woman—that was the Tinkerbell to his Hook. And also, not a woman. Not with calves like those.

  Matt got to his feet, braving the pain to claim his fairy. Tinkerbell wore a sheer, floaty skirt of aquamarine petals over flesh colored tights that ended in delicate, strappy silver-lame sandals. A quick glance at the crotch of the tights confirmed—nope, not a woman. Tinkerbell’s shoulders were bare and buff, the bodice of his matching aquamarine leotard cut low to show off cleavage that wasn’t there—just a small thatch of blond hair that disappeared under a swoop of sequins.

  Above those beautiful, brawny shoulders was a graceful neck leading to a face masked by a pale blue harem veil shielding the fairy’s mouth and nose, too solid to see through, only a pair of matching blue eyes visible above it. The heavy eyebrows were several shades darker than the fake blond twist that topped Tinkerbell’s head, but all Matt could see was the shimmer of eyeshadow beneath them—a pearly pink that matched the dusting of glitter in Tinkerbell’s hair.

  Fuck if that wasn’t the hottest thing he’d ever seen. He was about to say as much when he remembered his masquerade. Captain Hook might be a brutal pirate who made his enemies walk the plank, but he was also a charming Frenchman. Er, Brit. Whatever.

  “Enchanté,” he said, since it’d worked on Wendy. “May I?” He br
ought the fair fairy’s hand to his lips and pressed a dry kiss to the back of it. Then, when Tinkerbell didn’t snatch his hand back, he turned it over and pressed a much wetter kiss to his palm. The hand in his was strong, the knuckles slightly hairy, and Matt was already wondering how much small talk they had to engage in before they could get to the good stuff.

  “What’s your name, fair maiden?” he asked in his most rakish voice.

  Tinkerbell merely raised his other hand and shook it. A tinkling peal of bells sounded.

  “Oh, that’s adorable,” Matt said, striving to keep us his accent, whatever the hell it was. If Tinkerbell could stay in character, so could he. “You’re Tinkerbell, so you don’t talk.”

  Tinkerbell tinkled again.

  “You literally couldn’t be any more perfect. A big guy in a pretty costume and he’s not even going to try to talk to me. Please tell me you’re gay.”

  This time the tinkling of the bell was accompanied by a laugh from behind the veil, a little too deep to be called a giggle but Matt gave it the benefit of the doubt.

  “Now tell me how long I have to flatter you before I can get your cock in my mouth.”

  Without so much as a ring of warning, Tinkerbell grabbed his hand and started plowing through the living room, dodging the revelers with him firmly in tow. They raced down a hallway together, ending at a door which Tinkerbell opened with complete confidence. Matt found himself in a dark bedroom. He only had a moment to identify the location of the bed before Tinkerbell shut the door and pushed him up against it.

  Oh, fuck. The bristle of a man’s jaw assaulted him. Silk tangled with his tongue until they managed to get the veil out of the way, and then it was lips and teeth and grunts that were nothing like bells. Matt’s fake hook dropped with a hollow thud as he reached for Tinkerbell’s ass beneath those floaty petals.

  Tinkerbell sent him roughly to his knees, and it was such a fucking turn-on being pushed around by a guy in a fairy costume, that Matt practically came right there. He wished he could see better, but he worked his hands under the petals to tug down Tinkerbell’s tights and found him long and hard—and commando—beneath them. Matt started sucking even as his hands kept working the tights lower, finally getting them off altogether.