William Read online

  WILLIAM

  Enemies to Lovers Series – Book Three

  Anyta Sunday

  First published in 2012 by Anyta Sunday,

  Buerogemeinschaft ATP24, Am Treptower Park 24, 12435 Berlin, Germany

  An Anyta Sunday publication

  www.anytasunday.com

  Copyright 2012 Anyta Sunday

  Cover Design 2015 Natasha Snow

  Edited by Teresa Crawford, [email protected]

  All rights reserved. This publication may not be reproduced without prior permission of the copyright owner of this book.

  All the characters in this book are fictional and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedicated to the friends I made while studying at Otago University. | Oh what times we had together . . .

  1 Dunedinificated

  2 Hodl-ooh-ay-ee-do

  3 Freak Zone

  4 First Dunedin Student Party

  5 Pikelets

  6 Weird, dude

  7 Brother

  8 Say what?

  9 Birthday

  10 Moments

  11 Lies

  12 Suckers

  13 Evil

  14 Right

  15 Stones

  16 Leash

  Karl Andrews and Paul Hyte

  17 Words

  18 My Guy

  Acknowledgments

  About Anyta

  The series continues... | “The F Words” | Enemies to Lovers Book 4

  ALSO AVAILABLE | Leo Loves Aries

  A new person will enter your life in the early year, Leo. Look past any moments of frustration they might bring and laugh—this could be the start of a thriving friendship.

  Other Books by Anyta Sunday | Gay Romance

  Novellas

  Dedicated to the friends I made while studying at Otago University.

  Oh what times we had together . . .

  1 Dunedinificated

  Few things bugged William Sharp. Really bugged him, that was. His damn runaway mouth was one of them, and, as he discovered on his twenty-nine hour journey to the end of the world, so did the Chili Peppers playing on repeat five hours straight.

  Ask him, and he was sure he could regurgitate every line from Californication—and that from hearing it through the headphones of the girl next to him. And hell no, he did not dream of being Californicated—wasn’t even curious, no matter how dirty it sounded.

  Besides, if anything, he was off to be New Zealandificated.

  Dunedinificated to be more precise. And that’s where he was right now, on a bench outside Dunedin Airport, luggage tucked under his knees, watching the student-heavy crowds pouring out of the terminal.

  Increasingly nervous at the passing minutes, Will thought about checking his cell once more. He had a right to be nervous too; a week before he was due to leave, the family he was to board with bailed on him when their son decided to move back in. He’d felt like a train-wreck by the time he’d managed to organize something else.

  But surely this wouldn’t fall through too?

  Will dug out and checked his cell, re-reading the message Mrs. Wallace had sent him after he had tried insisting he take a shuttle.

  You’ll do no such thing. I’ll be there to pick you up, just wait outside, hun.

  He scanned the length of the building either side of him: it wasn’t that big, so if he was at the wrong ‘outside’ he was truly clueless.

  Still, he didn’t see any woman holding his name on a cheesy sign, or any mom-aged woman at all. There were just students, and not returning, mature students like him. Young students.

  Looking at them pass, he’d guess the average age was eighteen. His going-on-twenty-seven-self must have looked ancient next to them. Maybe Mrs. Wallace had been expecting someone younger?

  He couldn’t remember whether he’d told her his age or not. She’d interviewed him over the phone, immediately taking a liking to him once he’d introduced himself—he’d even been up front about the whole being gay thing, because he didn’t want it to be an issue. Though he’d had no clue what to do about accommodation if it had been. Lucky for him she’d barely hesitated before going on to ask him if he had allergies. But his age? Maybe she’d accidentally picked up one of these teens. Will wasn’t that uncommon a name; it could happen. Maybe that Will hadn’t cared to clarify either, seeing it would have scored him a free ride and, and—

  Gracious, he had to calm down. So what if his ride never came? He was almost twenty-seven—he knew how to order a cab.

  He searched the parking lot for said cabs and started to feel his heart pump ridiculously fast when he didn’t see any. Christ. What on earth was he doing here if getting transport into town was freaking him out?

  As he shook his head, mumbling to himself, he caught sight of a line of white cars just up from him, with green Dunedin signs and a number scrawled on the sides. Yep, there they were, right under his nose. He was an idiot. A blind idiot.

  A guy he’d noticed a few minutes earlier, standing at the edge of the building with his hands in his pockets and cap shadowing his face, paced a few steps in his direction and away again looking equally frustrated.

  He’d wait ten more minutes and if they were both still stupidly sitting/standing there he’d suggest they share a fare into town.

  In the meantime, he wasn’t averse to just looking at said Standing Guy. He was tall, measuring him up to the students walking past him, and damn if he wasn’t the type he could get lost in; absorbing his every aspect.

  Hmm, maybe Mrs. Wallace not showing up could be a good thing. . . .

  Standing Guy leaned his trim figure and a shoulder against the wall and crossed his arms. His sleeves were shoved up, showing off his slightly tanned, corded muscles—not that it was his arms he was really focusing on, how could he when there was such an ass to ogle and—Stop objectifying!

  He pointedly jerked his head toward a fresh crowd filtering out the doors, and lazily followed a couple of girls wearing what looked like all of their clothing layered on top of each other, topped with thick winter coats. They had to be sweating on a warm day like this. He was just right in his slacks and t-shirt, though it helped he sat in a wedge of sunlight.

  Again he checked his phone. Ah, dammit, whatever—he was done with waiting.

  He stood up, ready to waltz over to Standing Guy and suggest they snag a cab together, when his foot caught on the corner of his suitcase. He toppled forward, drawing attention to himself by whipping out a curse as he stumbled.

  “You all right there?” came a male voice along with the sound of footsteps.

  A blur of blue jeans hit his peripheral vision, and he knew by the frayed bottom edges it was Standing Guy. Will scrambled up, wishing he could keep his warm cheeks hidden. Okay, so maybe there was more that bugged him than he thought—he also hated how clumsy he could be.

  He forced himself to meet Standing Guy’s gaze. “Thanks, I’m f-fine. Just have two left feet.”

  “And a colorful mouth. I’ve never heard of that curse.”

  “I can blame my sister for that—she taught me all the curses I know.”

  He plunked himself back on the bench and fiddled with the zips of his suitcase like he had a purpose, when in fact, if anything, he just wanted to rip the zips off in punishment for tripping him up and making him look as stupid as he probably was.

  Standing Guy slipped onto the other end of the bench, and Will dropped the zips and looked at him again. He hadn’t seen it so well before, hidden under his brown cap, but now Standing Guy was closer he could see the guy’s mouth was full and sharp, and his nose was almost Greek, but for a small dent at the bridge. Neithe
r of those held anything to his steel-blue eyes. Steel-blue eyes that were smiling at him. Sweet potatoes. He gulped.

  “You’re American, right?” came his deep voice again.

  “Yeah,” Will said slowly, analyzing the situation. Standing Guy had sat next to him, now he was continuing to chat. Was he—could it be possible—interested in him? That was probably too good to be true. Nevertheless. . . .

  He smiled back. “I’m from Pennsylvania.”

  The sweet smile fell from Standing Guy’s lips. “No.”

  “Sorry?”

  Will’s mouth dropped open when he said, “You’re William Sharp, aren’t you?”

  “Will Sharp. H-how’d you—” he spluttered before firmly pressing his lips together.

  “Damn, I thought I was waiting for someone younger.” Standing Guy sighed and inclined his head toward the parking lot, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. “My mum asked me to pick you up.”

  Will slumped back against the bench. Well of course this would happen. Why the heck not? The universe loved making a fool of him—there he was, the sitting cliché checking out the guy whose mother he would be living with. Such an expected twist. He should have guessed it. Really, world, throw me a curve ball, why don’t you? He breathed out a half-chuckle, shaking his head. “So, you’re Vicky’s son?”

  The guy just looked at him, the spark from before fading from his eyes. Now they were dull and flat.

  Will frowned and pushed to his feet, careful this time not to trip and flatten Standing G—“Say, what’s your name?”

  For a moment the guy pursed his lips as if he wasn’t going to give it to him, but then his jaw relaxed and, with a stiff shrug, he said, “Heath.”

  “Right then, Heath, where’s the car?”

  ‘The car’ was a 1989 Holden Commodore. At first he thought it was a joke until Heath unlocked the boot and helped shoved his crap in the back. Will waited for Heath to open the driver’s door, jump in, and pull up the lock on the passenger side before he settled his lightweight self onto the torn leather seats.

  He shut the door and tried for a smile to cover the sudden nerves he had about driving in this thing. It fell from his face as he tugged at the seat belt and it didn’t budge. God, this thing was going to blow up and he was going to die before he even got to experience living here at all. Not that a seat belt would do much against the car blowing up, but it would have made him feel a teensy bit better about the whole shebang.

  “Need to lift it, then pull,” Heath said.

  Following his instructions, Will managed to get the seat-belt to the lock-attachment-thingy—whatever it was called. But there he hit another snag, it fit in the tiny space, but it didn’t ‘click’.

  He dropped the belt, and maybe his nervousness was showing or something, because Heath leaned over, took the belt, put in the latch, and then, pulling a heavy-looking political philosophy book off the wide dash, proceeded to knock it until there was a faint ‘click.’

  “It comes out no problem,” was the only comment Heath had on the subject, before he started the car and it spit and spluttered to life.

  It was an awkward forty-five-minute drive into the city. Every time Will tried to strike up a conversation, Heath brushed it off with a grunt or a yes/no answer—even to his open-ended questions. So, what do you study? Un-uh. What part of the city do you live in? Uh-hun-ya.

  Was that . . . he didn’t study at all, or what? And was that just his mumbling brush-off answer, or a Maori name for his suburb? What happened to the guy he’d first met? The guy who cared to ask a stranger if he was okay?

  After a quarter-hour, Will gave up with the questions. Guess it was obvious Heath didn’t want to talk; what wasn’t obvious was why the guy suddenly chose to dislike him. He hadn’t even had the chance to screw anything up, as he invariably did.

  It was five minutes after that when the Commodore started to make some funky grunting sounds. To calm himself, Will set out a math equation in his head and tried to solve it, while he surreptitiously wiped his sweating palms over his slacks—which would see the wash as soon as was humanly possible.

  Heath glanced over at his hands and Will stopped moving them. The guy then flicked on a CD. Maybe it was to cover the sound of the shuddering car-grunts, and maybe, even, it was a little thoughtful, but he almost wished Heath hadn’t, because what did you know? It was the flaming Chili Peppers.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Will muttered under his breath at the line dream of californ-i-ca-tion.

  He rested his head back, watching the hills, the cheap housing, and the city pass by him. Then, as the Commodore screeched up an otherwise quiet, steep side street, a miracle occurred. Heath shut off the player and spoke. Well, first he cleared his throat and tapped the steering wheel with his thumbs a few times. Then he spoke.

  “Look, see, thing is Mum’s not really right in the head at the moment. She’s hell-bent on you staying with us, but I honestly don’t see it lasting—and I sure as hell hope it doesn’t.” Heath glanced out his side window, lifting his cap with one hand and re-positioning it. “This thing, it’s gonna crash and burn, ay, and you’re gonna be stuck in the middle of it. Reckon it’s best if you made up some excuse and found yourself a flat quick-smart.”

  What the . . . ?

  “Ahh—”

  But he was cut off as Heath jerked the car to the right and into a driveway.

  “What do you mean crash and burn?” he asked Heath as he yanked on the handbrake.

  Heath took off his cap and Will didn’t fail to miss his hand shaking as he did, then he tousled his dirty blond hair as he stared straight at the garage door.

  “Just don’t get comfortable.”

  2 Hodl-ooh-ay-ee-do

  Mrs. Wallace—Vicky—as she adamantly insisted, hauling him into hug at the door like he was a long-missed relative, was an attractive woman who didn’t look fifty. With high cheek-bones like her son, and a tall, lean figure, she passed as much younger. Only her short-cropped hair gently framed with grey gave some indication of her age.

  She bustled with energy that was almost too much to follow. Grabbing his gear, she dragged his stuff inside and pushed the bags against the cream and green-trimmed hall wall. “Come on in—it’s a little tight in the hall, but the rest of the place is spacious enough.”

  And it was, from what he could tell from their whirlwind tour of the bottom floor.

  In the kitchen/dining room she skittered to each cupboard, flinging them open. “You don’t have to ask, you can help yourself to anything, and if I don’t have it, just jot a note on the fridge and either me or Heath’ll whip down to New World and pick it up for you.”

  Heath trudged into the room, kissed his mom on the cheek and plunked himself at the dark brown, round dining table, picking up a newspaper and snatching a cookie off a cooling tray. “Or we could just show him where the supermarket is and he can get it himself.”

  Vicky shook her head. “Don’t mind my boy; he doesn’t know how challenging it can be moving to another country.”

  “Well I would if—” he cut himself off and finished with, “it’s a supermarket—not that hard to figure out.”

  Vicky none-too-subtly moved over to her son and lightly clubbed the back of his head, knocking off his cap. “Don’t wear that indoors. And the biscuits were for William.”

  “All of them?” Heath looked at him, running a quick eye down his body. “Yeah, maybe they should be.”

  What? He hadn’t just said that. Misty red shrouded Will’s vision. He was not that thin, sure he could do to put on a few pounds, but he was all right looking, proportion-wise. Wasn’t he? He resisted the urge to look down at himself.

  Vicky turned to Will, shaking her head but smiling fondly as if she didn’t catch the intended meaning of Heath’s words. “Did you want a biscuit? They’re peanut brownies.”

  Will struggled to lift his scowl off Heath, who had one eyebrow raised as if in challenge, waiting for Will’s counterattack.


  Damn it if he didn’t want to give it to him either. But he was a guest in their house, and Vicky didn’t deserve such behavior from him. Seriously, what had happened to Standing Guy? Heath was a jerk.

  Will smiled at Vicky and looked at the dark biscuit speckled with peanuts. He swallowed. He didn’t want to be impolite, but he could never eat such a thing—it’d have been fine if it were a plain chocolate biscuit, or if he’d been offered just the peanuts. But together? He shook his head. “Ah, no thank you.”

  Vicky frowned, but quickly smoothed it over. “That’s fine, you probably want to eat something more substantial, anyway. I’ll get on to making dinner soon. Heath, would you peel the potatoes and kumara?”

  Heath gave a slight nod and continued to pretend-read whatever-it-was he was pretend-reading.

  If the two of them ever got friendly—ha! That was looking rather doubtful—

  Will’d give him a tip on how to fake read. Something he’d learned to do way back at high school to get his English Lit teacher off his back while he day-dreamed about the ways he and Larry Baker could screw without getting caught.

  He shook off the memory and the twitch in his slacks that came with it. Glancing out the sliding glass doors behind Heath, Will took in the large veranda, huge green yard with bushes and lemon trees and, in the distance, a small olive house.

  Vicky caught his gaze and smiled. “Oh, that’s Heath’s hut. He’s got all sorts of toys you might like. He should show you sometime.”

  The way she said it was innocent enough, but the flush that spindled up Heath’s neck to his cheeks had Will raising an inward brow. “Oh he does, does he?” he drawled. He could feel the tables turning slightly toward his advantage, if only he could think how to best exploit it.

  Heath was quick to clear his throat. “XBox, Wii, an old Playstation . . . that’s all.”

  Vicky patted Heath’s shoulder once and moved with Will into the hall.

  Fine, the exploiting would have to wait.

  He focused on Vicky as she brushed a stray hair from her face. Heath had made it sound like the woman was going to be more of a head-case, but other than being a touch frantic perhaps, and chipper—yeah, really chipper—she seemed okay to him.