Guilty Pleasures Read Online Free PDF Page B

yellow slab of salty butter, then poured a second round of port with a generous hand. “Eat up while you can. Once the customers arrive, we won’t even get a chance to piss.”
    Lance savoured the peppery taste of the crumbly cheese and the sweetness of the crisp pear.
    “I remember once in Istanbul, I got the runs on New Year’s Eve. What a night . . .” Serge reached over and cracked a walnut shell between his large, square teeth. “What a crazy, crazy night!”
    “Good God! You shouldn’t do that, sir! You’ll crack a tooth at the very least!”
    Serge laughed. “I’ve got good teeth, boy, and strong jaws. Always did!” He started singing a dirty little ditty he’d written long ago.  
    As a young man I became a whore
    And sucked on big cocks for my life
    And the muscular strength that it gave to my jaw
    Has lasted the rest of my life!
    Lance choked on his port.  
    Serge cackled gleefully at Lance’s startled expression. “Don’t look so shocked, my laddie. Something about you tells me you’re not quite as naive as you seem. No, not quite. I reckon you know quite a bit about life, and so do I. More than I wanted to as a boy. More than was good for me. But I found my place, Willie. A good place where I do good work, and can say what I like, and be with people I like.”
    “That is a privilege; there’s not many can say the same, myself included.”
    “There’s something about you, Willie, something . . . you have a feeling for things, a nose, maybe. Millie’s the same, you know. I sensed something in her. Twelve, she was when she came with her dad to the restaurant I was working in—oh, how he loved that girl. She asked to see the kitchen, but when she walked in, she just froze—closed her eyes and sniffed away like a bloodhound. She started coming round every week, on Tuesdays, stating she wanted to cook.” Serge shook his head as he smiled. “Great girl, that Millie.”
    “Hello, boys, everything on the go?” Millie asked as she walked into the kitchen.
    Lance grinned inanely and nodded a silent greeting.
    “Sure is, Millie dear, no worries,” answered Serge. “What about your end there? Everything all right?”
    “Yes, the musicians are here. The singer’s complaining about the wig, but loves the costume. The bed was troublesome; it weighs a ton. Um, Serge dear, I wanted to ask you for a rather large favour . . . would you serve the hot chocolate and croissants, please?”
    “The chocolate?” Serge frowned. “Why me?”
    “Well, Charlene Rivers—Jackson’s wife—read the Madame de Montespan diaries, and now wants to recreate her breakfast-in-bed scene . . . you know, the one with the hot chocolate served by a dwarf in the Louis XV era.”
    “Athéna de Montespan was Louis XIV’s mistress, not the XV.”
    “Serge dear, I can’t argue with a client. Our business is culinary fantasy, not historical rigour, and Jackson Rivers is paying an obscene amount of money for the whole thing.”  
    Lance had a sudden vision of Serge with pink cheeks and a baroque love patch.
    “Shit on a stick and call it a corndog! I can’t believe this. You want me to cavort to the whim of some fat cat’s wife?”
    Millie looked at Serge pleadingly.  
    Serge sighed. “ All right, Millicent, but this is absolutely the last time.”
    “Serge, I adore you. I’ll go get the wig and livery.”
    “Wig!” He gaped like a fish, his large eyes bulging alarmingly. Hoarse, raucous sounds erupted from his throat.  
    Lance found himself savagely biting at his lips to prevent a suicidal burst of laughter.
    Millie backed away quickly, smiling and nodding. “You’ll be fine, Serge. Just keep breathing. I’ll be right back.”
    “Fucking pseudo-French fucking bitch; a fucking dwarf in a fucking wig!” Muttering, Serge scampered off the bench and rushed out, swaying on his bandy legs, leaving Lance to wrestle with his perplexed amusement.

    Half an hour later, Millie popped her head around the