Oliver and Angus

45 Pages·2011·0.26 MB·English

by  Petros Nerine

Shifting Perspectives: Book 1: Oliver & Angus - 1
Shifting Perspectives Book One: Oliver and Angus
by Nerine Petros

Dedication: I can write a book, but that doesn’t mean
you’ll ever get to read it. For that to happen, three
people need to be thanked. First is Cameron Dane,
thanks for the inspiration and the support. Second is
Kate, my editor, for not strangling me via e-mail and for
answering every single question, no matter how
mundane. Third, to my angel, who kept the kids out of
my hair long enough for me to put fingers to keypad in
the first place.

Chapter One

Oliver, and don't dare call him Olli, strolled through the
center of town, returning to work after an afternoon at
the hairdresser. Oliver thought to himself it was a good
thing his mother owned the place, because otherwise
monthly maintenance could have become quite
expensive. Not many males would have been caught
leaving that place at any time of day, but Oliver took
pride in his appearance.

Being the token gay man in the small, outback town
wasn't easy. It was his looks alone that allowed him to
survive without becoming fodder for the masses. Well,
his looks and maybe his ability to tear to shreds even the
smartest man or woman in town for just daring to look
at him sideways, let alone actually managing a
comment.

You didn't get to be gay at his age and live in a remote,
rural community without being a tough old codger -- at
least on the inside, because there was no way anyone
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would have said the buttery-soft skin still gracing
Oliver's features at the age of twenty-seven was tough or
old. Add in a touch of light caramel skin tone without
the need for a suntan, thanks to his mother's Greek
heritage, and you had one hell of a little package.

Oliver's size and appearance had worked in his favor on
more than one occasion; people often underestimated the
smaller man. Unfortunately, it also made for a lonely
existence, women envious of his looks and men scared
of them, especially after he made his orientation well
known. Oh, no one was mean, but all of the farmers
were now very careful about not appearing to be too
nice.

Apart from Jacey. Thank God for Jacey. But there was
no way Jacey would be anything but his close friend. It
would have been nice to be wanted, but looking at the
way things were now, the chances were slim.

Lost in his own thoughts, Oliver didn't remember any of
the walk back to the butchery he owned and loved. It
was win-win situation as far as Oliver was concerned --
the farmers kept him stocked with first-rate meat straight
off the farm, and Oliver in turn kept them stocked in the
freshest, highest quality cuts you could find within a two
days' drive.

It also provided Oliver with plenty of delicious eye
candy. Men with a light sheen of sweat over their skin, a
little dusty and sun-kissed, flushed from hours of hard
work in the sun, rolling with muscles only developed
through hard work.

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Oliver might never have remembered the walk back to

the butcher shop, but he would always remember

walking through the front shop door. Jacey, his shop

assistant, was falling all over himself trying to catch the

seemingly uninterested attention of a heart-stoppingly

attractive man standing in front of the counter.

Jacey's behavior was particularly odd because he was

normally so grounded and down to earth. Regardless of

how fine this man was, there were also some pretty fine

farmers round these parts, and Jacey had never shown

the slightest fluster around any of them. Nor any other

male. As far as Oliver knew, Jacey was straight as they

came.

Just when a stutter started to present itself, Oliver

strolled forward into the man's line of sight, although he

couldn't shake the feeling this man had always known he

was there, even before Oliver walked through the door.

Oliver never discounted his feelings; they'd kept him

alive so far, and given who and what he hung out with,

that was saying something.

Holding his hand out in front of him in the universal

sign of friendship, Oliver strode forward.

"Nice to meet you, the name's Oliver. I'm the butcher.

This here is Jacey, but we all call him Jack. It helps him

deal with being named after his birth nurse."

"Call me Jack and you're dead where you stand," came

the trained, automatic response from Jacey as the

stranger raised his own hand and shook Oliver's briefly.

Aaah, it was good to know some things were reliable at

least, but Jacey still looked a little shell shocked.

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"It's good to meet you, I'm Fynn. My family and I are
new to the area. I've come to town on a scouting
mission, and I guess meat is usually the first port of call
for any hungry Waangoo." The man responded in a
wonderfully deep Australian accent, the type that could
only be earned by being born and bred right here.

Oliver knew some Aboriginal dialect, but the word
"Waangoo" eluded him. Oh, well, there were more
important things to worry about if he had a shot at
staying ahead of the gossip.

"So, if you're new in town, does that mean you and
yours have moved in down on the old Doolan lot?"
Oliver asked. Anything else meant that new land was
being developed, and that hadn't happened out this way
since before his mama's papa was born.

"Yeah, we're starting to fix it up. We have a little over a
quarter finished. It's enough for me and my three
brothers to be comfortable," Fynn responded.

Hoowee, Oliver bet that had made old Beryl at the local
real estate office real happy-like. Beryl had been trying
to move that property since the time of the dinosaurs.
Rumor had it old man Doolan had been a mean so and
so; no one had wanted to even think of taking it on after
he passed when Oliver's mama was a little girl. It had
long since fallen into disrepair after being the local party
hangout for the high schoolers for years, as well as that
mythical haunted house for just as long for the grade
schoolers.

Oliver hadn't heard any rumors around town, which
meant either it had all happened very quickly, or the rest
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of the town was dead from the shock. Usually people
were trying to get out of this place, not looking to settle
in. He was sure it wouldn't be long before the gossips
were beating a path to his door, though.

Speak of the devil, Oliver thought, as Patrice walked in
from the post office across the way. It may have been a
little unkind to think of her that way, but Patrice was the
biggest gossip in town, and at only twenty-four, that was
quite a feat.

Starting to speak before she was even inside the shop,
Patrice started with "Oh, my goodness! Lordy Lord,
have you heard, Olli? Beryl was just in, and I swear,
going on and on about the new blood in town, and how
they look dangerous, and have you heard..." Patrice
finally looked up, and stopped short at the sight of Fynn
standing in the middle of Oliver's shop.

"Hi, Patty, how you doin'? Have you met one of our
newest residents?" Oliver asked with unholy glee. "This
here is Fynn."

Precious Patrice had been on his back about one thing or
the other since she had "found the Lord" in the ninth
grade. Oliver had no problem with organized religion;
he had his own thoughts on how Jesus would have
picked his chosen ones was all. In his own mind, if the
Bible was to be believed, Jesus had love and acceptance
for all. The other thing Oliver couldn't get his mind
around was if God was his creator, why would He have
created him with attraction to other males ingrained in
his DNA if it was supposedly so wrong?

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Well, that was a puzzle for another day, because he still
had the precious Patrice to deal with, currently glaring
holes through the middle of his forehead with her laser-
beam eyes for daring to call her Patty. Plus, he was still
feeling spiteful for her "Olli," so he let the torture
continue.

"Yeah, Fynn here has moved into the old Doolan place
and is fixing it up," Oliver finished.

No need to mention those three other brothers Fynn had
been talking about. Patrice sure didn't need help in
drumming up church members, and could Oliver really
help it if he held even just the slightest amount of hope
that at least one of the four brothers might fall into his
fraternity of the rainbow flag?

Oliver's words caused Patrice to pause, and she spent the
next thirty seconds taking a good look at just who had
happened to move into their town. Cowboy boots gave
way to long, lean, firm legs encased in dusty, work-
roughened jeans. The best kind of jeans, the ones that
had been worn so much they now knew a body's shape.
A chesty Bonds t-shirt finished the ensemble, and with
his Stetson in his hands, Fynn completed the picture of a
farm-boy pin-up.

The change that came over Patrice was astonishing to
see. Gone were the anger, the laser-beam stare, and the
frown lines, and in moved the simpering southern belle,
which was such an oxymoron to see in the Aussie bush
that Oliver almost bent over double in laughter. He held
himself back just in time to see the look on Fynn's face
form into what could almost be termed mistrust. Funny
how it had taken Oliver almost half his life to realize
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what precious Patty was about, but Fynn had her
measure in less than thirty seconds.

"The pleasure is all mine," claimed Patrice with a flutter,
holding out her hand for Fynn.

"I'm sure it has been, ma'am," replied Fynn in polite
tones, and ignoring her hand, continued, "but I have
some business I need to attend to with Jacey, so if you
could please excuse us?"

Fynn then proceeded to grab Jacey's hand and head to
the back of the shop, leaving Oliver with a very
confused Patty. Oliver had felt the heat between the two
men, but still couldn't help wondering how long it would
be before Jacey woke from his trance to realize a man
was holding his hand -- and whether Fynn would return
with a black eye.

"Well, I, I just don't know about that," Patrice
murmured, shock on her face.

"You can't fault his manners," Oliver responded. "He's a
farmer, his hat was off inside, and he refrained from
shaking your hand on account of the dirt."

Oliver couldn't say why he was giving this woman's
pride an out, but immediately after, he was again
desperately trying to hold back his laughter.

"Yes, yes, of course, that's what it was," Patrice replied,
completely ignoring the fact that Fynn had grabbed hold
of Jacey's hand without hesitation. Oliver knew that, in
her mind, it didn't count. After all, Jacey was male. "I
need to get back to work."
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Her words trailed off, and, apparently deep in thought,
Patrice turned around and left the store, the door
banging shut with a tinkle of the bell behind her. Oliver
could see her through his front window, walking back to
the post office. He returned to his own post behind the
counter to begin wrapping up for the day. No way was
he putting his hair net back on, though, not after the
work his mother had just done!

Jacey returned to the front of the store a few moments
later, again with a shell-shocked look on his face. That
was quickly becoming the norm, Oliver thought, and for
the next five months, he would go on wondering what
had happened in the back room of the shop on that
particular afternoon.

Fynn also walked into the room with a very satisfied
expression on his face and completely ignored Jacey.

"Hey, Oliver, we eat a lot of meat, and part of my job is
dealing with our day to day requirements food-wise, so
you'll be seeing a lot of me from now on. I'd like to
place a standing weekly order, if I could?" Fynn
requested.

"I have no problem with that, as long as I have the
stock," Oliver responded.

Fynn grinned, revealing a full mouth of perfect, even
white teeth, made even starker white by the dark, dark
tan nothing but hard work out in the elements could
create. "Thanks, mate. Makes my job even easier if I
don't have to call once a week with the order for you. I
know the boys would live on steaks if they could, but
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since I'm the cook out at our place, if you could just do
us up a whole cow in the standard cuts, and I'll collect
each week. Money is no worries, I'll pay for the first
cow now, and each week when I collect, I'll pay for the
next cow in advance. Sound all right?"

"Yeah, sounds fine, mate." That was the only response
Oliver's brain could come up with on the fly. He
finished the transaction for this week's cow and watched
Fynn walk out the door to the beat-up utility vehicle
parked out front, only then realizing that he'd never
noticed it on his way in.

The only other thing Oliver could think of was just who
was supposed to tell the current shifter pack that another
shifter pack had moved in? Because although Oliver
wasn't a shifter himself, growing up around them, there
was no way he could miss not only the consumption of
an entire cow on a weekly basis, but also Fynn's loose,
smooth, rolling gait.

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