Hot Sheets Read online

  HOT SHEETS

  by

  RAY GORDON

  Hot Sheets first published in 1998 by Hodder & Stoughton. Published as an eBook in 2013 by Chimera eBooks.

  ISBN 9781780802633

  www.chimerabooks.co.uk

  Chimera (ki-mir'a, ki-) a creation of the imagination, a wild fantasy.

  New authors are always welcome, or if you’re already a published author and have existing work, the eBook rights of which remain with or have reverted to you, we would love to hear from you.

  This work is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. The author asserts that all characters depicted in this work of fiction are eighteen years of age or older, and that all characters and situations are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.

  Copyright Ray Gordon. The right of Ray Gordon to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  This novel is fiction - in real life practice safe sex.

  Chapter One

  The fire alarm resounded throughout Stokepot Towers. Bounding down the stairs, the proprietor, Mike Hunt, tried to keep his cool. "Don't panic! Don't panic!" he cried, hurdling the last few steps to the smoke-filled foyer. "Sacred bollocks! Fire! Fire!" Tearing across reception and bursting into the kitchen, Mike stared in horror at the bonfire erupting from the cooker.

  "The bloody frying pan's on fire! Christ, Dave, what the hell are you doing?"

  "Er... sorry, Mike, the gas was too high," the good-looking young man grinned sheepishly as he opened the back door, his unruly blond hair cascading over his fresh, tanned face.

  "Fuck me, do something! Use the fire blanket!"

  "I can't."

  "Why the fuck not?"

  "We haven't got one."

  "Shit! OK, take it outside - carefully!"

  Watching his haphazard chef don a pair of oven gloves to exit the impromptu flambé into the back yard, Mike sighed. There were fifteen breakfasts to serve, Goldie the waitress hadn't made an appearance, the bacon had become pork scratchings and the phone was ringing incessantly. This is no way to run a hotel, he ruminated, his soulful, deep-set eyes following the trajectory of four smouldering pieces of bread as they shot out of the toaster and plunged into a pan of boiling baked beans.

  "Dave, can't you get anything right?" Mike asked despairingly as the befuddled cook leapt into the kitchen and flung the red-hot frying pan into the sink, smashing several dirty plates. "You are a spunk bubble, I ought to kick your arse! Christ, why doesn't someone answer the bloody phone?"

  "A change of menu. A mange is as good as a breast," Dave murmured pensively as he opened the fridge door, the handle breaking off in his hand.

  "Christ, now you've knackered the fridge! Mind you, the way you waste food, we don't need a bloody fridge! I hope that wasn't fresh bacon?"

  "No, it was off - going green and blue round the edges, like an ageing prostitute's inner cunt lips."

  "It's still a bloody waste. Why's life so fucking hard?"

  "I don't know, I was drunk at the time. Actually, life's rather like my cock, it has its ups and downs!" Dave chuckled, trying to make light of the situation as he tossed the fridge handle onto the floor. "Sometimes it's hard, and sometimes it's..."

  "Do we have to discuss your cock first thing in the morning?"

  "Sorry, it's a trait I inherited from my mother. Always on about cocks, she was."

  "A girl's juicy cunt, yes, but not your cock!"

  "Morning, noon and night - cocks, cocks, cocks."

  "Was she a nymphomaniac?"

  "No, she was a seamstress. My father had her shot."

  "That's one way to silence her, I suppose."

  "She's just a distant mammary now. Which reminds me, why are cunts like a rainy midsummer's day?" Dave grinned, kicking the fridge door shut.

  "What?"

  "Because they're hot and wet!"

  "You'll be hot and wet in a minute! Talking of hot, wet cunts, where the hell's Goldie?"

  "I don't know, I haven't seen her."

  "She's probably frigging herself off somewhere. All she ever thinks about is her clitoris!"

  "She can't help it, Mike, she's illegitimate - born out of wedlock."

  "That doesn't surprise me!"

  "I blame her mother."

  "Fuck her mother!"

  "Someone must have."

  Casting his eyes around the kitchen, Mike sighed. Grease and fat dripping from the walls, daylight barely ably to penetrate the grime covering the windows, the tiled floor littered with potato peelings, breadcrumbs, bacon rind...The entire kitchen needed high pressure steam blasting! he thought, focusing on something brown and shrivelled smeared on the floor in the corner, strikingly resembling... no, it couldn't be!

  "God, look at the state of this bloody kitchen, Dave!" he stormed, running his hand over the filthy worktop. "It's reminiscent of a fucking piggery!"

  "It's home from home to me, I was raised in a piggery."

  "Where the hell did you do your training, at a bloody sewage farm?"

  "The canteen at the gas board, I couldn't get into catering college."

  "Then why did you have the gas so high? Was it another one of your inexplicable moments of madness?"

  "That might explain it. Don't worry, Mike, I'll deal with the breakfasts and then clean up. Believe me, everything's under control. Shit, the beans are boiling over! Beans boiled are beans spoiled!"

  "Under control, my knob! God, all I ask is to be with normal people. Argh, the bells, the bells! Christ, I'd better turn that fucking racket off, it's enough to wake the dead."

  Crashing through the kitchen door into the foyer, Mike grinned at an attractive young brunette standing by the reception desk. "Ah, er... good morning," he greeted her, straightening his dark blue tie. "I won't keep you a minute, I have to turn the fire alarm off."

  Dashing to the understairs cupboard and yanking out an old vacuum cleaner and several mops and buckets, he reached to a control box and flicked a switch. Jesus, look at the fucking mess in here! Peace restored, he brushed his dishevelled dark hair back as he popped his head round the dining room door.

  "Good morning, breakfast won't be long now," he smiled to the bewildered guests.

  "Oh dear, is there a fire?" a frail, elderly lady wheezed as she held the tablecloth to her face. "Oh, the smoke, I can hardly breathe!"

  "There's no fire, just a minor incident in the kitchen, Miss Chaste - everything's under control," Mike assured the flustered resident. "Please, don't blow your nose on the bloody tablecloth!"

  "Ye Gods! Smells pretty damned foul to me, old boy!" Colonel Buckshot grunted, his waxed moustache twitching as he sniffed the air. "What the devil have you been up to?"

  "Just trying to piece together life's endless jigsaw puzzle, Colonel," Mike sighed hopelessly.

  "I hope it wasn't my damned breakfast! What!"

  "No, it wasn't your damned... it wasn't your breakfast."

  "Is it too much to ask for coffee, old man?"

  "What? You want coffee now, this minute?"

  "If it's not too much trouble."

  Jesus Christ! "All right, all right I'll see to it."

  "The colonel was talking about... about mutiny," Miss Chaste chipped in nervously.

  "Er, no, no I wasn't! Do you know, back in fifty-six..."

  "Yes you were! You said that, unless things improve here, we should..."

  "She's lost it, old boy!" t
he colonel winked at Mike. "Mutiny, indeed! Or was it fifty-five?"

  "Just chat amongst yourselves for a while," Mike sighed, closing the door.

  I'll give him mutiny, the fucking old git! he thought, moving across the foyer to the reception desk. A fine start to the day! But it was nothing unusual for Stokepot Towers, where one horrendous problem after another seemed to be the norm. Gazing at the attractive young woman, Mike prayed that she'd want a room for a week. Christ knows, I need the money! But, no doubt, she'd be problematic.

  "Sorry about that, madam," he smiled nervously. "Welcome to Stokepot Towers."

  "Smokepot, don't you mean?" the woman coughed, fanning the thick fog away from her angelic face.

  "Er... a minor incident in the kitchen, I'm afraid. Normally, things here at Stokepot Towers run as smooth as a shaved... anyway, how can I help you?" Mike smiled, scrutinizing the dusky delicacy's full red lips. Ever had your mouth fucked?

  Her dark chestnut hair in a bob, her hazel eyes mirroring an endearing air of innocence, she was a cordon bleu morsel indeed, Mike surmised. Her tailored blue suit was obviously haute couture and her exquisite white silk blouse wasn't off the peg, either, he observed. No housewife, that's for sure! he pondered, admiring her delicate baby-smooth hands, her perfectly manicured nails. The woman radiated an air of elegance he'd not known before. There was something strangely enigmatic about her, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it, or up it - yet! Lovely though she was, though, he was sure she'd be trouble. Most women are!

  "Do you have any rooms?" the mysterious beauty spluttered as she held a white lace handkerchief to her grimacing face.

  "Er... sorry, I was daydreaming."

  "Do you have any rooms?"

  "Of course I have rooms! In case you hadn't noticed, this is a hotel! What did you think it was, a chapel of rest?"

  "Any free rooms, I mean."

  "Good God, there'd be coffins strewn all over the... what did you say?"

  "Do you have any free rooms?"

  "No, certainly not! Free rooms? This isn't the Salvation bloody Army!"

  "Then you should display a sign outside."

  "It's pretty obvious that this isn't the Salvation Army. There'd be trombones and bibles scattered everywhere if..."

  "A No Vacancies sign."

  "But we have plenty of vacancies."

  "You do have rooms then?"

  "Yes, how many would you like?"

  "I'm sorry?"

  God, help me! "How - many - rooms - would - you - like?"

  "It's all right, I'm not deaf! I only want one room."

  "Fine, fine! A one-night stand, is it? I mean, a one-night stay?"

  "Yes, just the one night."

  "Breakfast?"

  "One had breakfast on the train - fortunately!"

  Oh, did one? Spiffing, jolly good show. "What I meant was - bed and breakfast, or just a bed?"

  "Oh, I see. Bed and breakfast, please - and a meal this evening."

  "Good, the more money the better. Er... right, just let me make a note of that," Mike smiled, grabbing a pen. "So, that's bed, evening meal, and breakfast. Well, not necessarily in that order, you understand. Unlike the Salvation Army, we don't serve evening meals in bed, or before breakfast, for that matter!"

  "Yes, quite. May I see this evening's menu?"

  "No, that's not possible."

  "Oh, why not?"

  "Because I haven't done the menus yet. I can't do everything at once! What do you think I am, bloody Superman?"

  "I'm sorry, I just wanted to know in advance so..."

  "Whatever is the urgency? Can't you wait until this evening? I mean, do you have to know what's on this evening's menu this early in the morning?"

  "Well, no, I..."

  "Do you have an eating disorder?"

  "No, it's just that..."

  "Shall we get on with the job in hand or would you like to discuss next year's Christmas party bookings? Right, what name..."

  "I only..."

  "Don't interrupt!"

  His head aching, his pen poised over the register, Mike wondered what on earth he was doing running a hotel when he could be sitting by a river beneath the warm summer sun fishing for trout. With one insurmountable problem after another, he should never have bought the place, he reflected - trout fishing was a far better way to spend his days.

  "What name is it?" he asked the woman despairingly, eyeing her sensuously billowing blouse. Miss Breast? Miss Spunknipple? Miss Cunt-Frigger?

  "Christina."

  "Christina what?" God, some people can be so bloody difficult!

  "Christina..."

  "Christina Christina? That's unusual. Was your mother dyslexic?"

  "No, my name's..."

  "I do apologise for the complexity of the register, Christina Christina. I don't know why they make them so difficult to fill in. I mean, look at it, it's so confusing - name, date, room number... good grief, it's enough to tax the brain of a tax man! I blame Her Majesty's Stationery Office."

  "One's Christian name is Elizabeth - Elizabeth Christina."

  "Oh, I see. At last, we're getting somewhere! Is one's title Ms, Miss, Mr, or Mrs?"

  "Mr?"

  "Well, you never know these days. So, what's your title?"

  "I'd rather not say."

  "Look, can we try and work together rather than against each other? I can't possibly fill the register in unless..."

  "Well, if you promise to keep it to yourself."

  "Keep it to myself? Is it a secret?"

  "Princess - Princess Christina."

  Visibly stunned, Mike stood open-mouthed for several seconds, gazing in disbelief at the young woman. Holding his head as he realized how discourteous he'd been, he leaned on the desk to steady his trembling body. Trying to utter words of greetings to his royal guest, he finally drew a deep breath.

  "Holy ball bags! Er... Princess?" he gasped, bowing before the shocked woman. "Welcome to my humble hotel, Your Royalness! What an honour, Your Most Highly Esteemed Imperialness!"

  "Thank you."

  "I'm so sorry if I appeared to be rude, it's just that I'm used to dealing with commoners, you see. Damned riff-raff, uncouth bloody yobbos, peasants, lager louts, the impudent masses..."

  "That's quite all right."

  "Common as muck, some of the types we get staying here. If I had my way, I'd have the plebs roughed up and fucking shot! Sorry, I mean..."

  "Yes, quite. Er..."

  "Paul!" Mike yelled at the top of his voice, making his bewildered guest jump with fright as the alcohol-reeking barman staggered across the foyer. "Sorry, Your Eminence, I didn't mean to startle you. Paul, you alcoholic hermaphrodite! Come here!"

  "Is there a fire?" the dazed young man slurred, turning on his heels and heading towards the desk, his bloodshot eyes focused on the young woman's slender legs.

  "No, just a minor incident in the kitchen. This is Her Royalness, Princess Christina."

  "Prickness Pisstina, right you are," Paul mumbled dismissively, brushing his tousled brown hair away from his eyes. "The vodka's out and we're low on gin."

  "You're supposed to bow!" Mike whispered angrily through gritted teeth.

  "What?"

  "Lean forward, man!"

  "Lean..."

  "God, give me bloody strength! Oh, er... I'm sorry, Your Majesticness. Paul, would you show Her Royal Nobleness to room thirty-six, please?"

  "Womb flirty-sex," Paul drooled, almost falling over as he grabbed the royal suitcase and staggered into the lift. "This way, Pisstina."

  What the hell's a princess doing here? Mike mused, his eyes following her shapely calves, her knee-length skirt elegantly outlining the gentle curves of her rounded buttocks as she glided into the lift. Christ, royalty at Stokepot bloody Towers! Wonder if she fucks?

  Straightening his black velvet jacket and adjusting his tie, Mike rubbed his chin. There had to be a way to bring in some real money, he reflected, flicking through a dozen or so brown env
elopes strewn across the desk. There was little point in owning a hotel simply to have the debts piling up and the place crumbling around him. "Huh, real money!" he grunted, brushing flecks of dust off his lapels. Dream on, Mike!

  "Ah, Goldie, you horny little tart!" he scowled as a petite blonde emerged from the bar, her French maid outfit three sizes too small, her pert breasts threatening to burst the buttons. "Where the hell have you been?"

  "In the bar," Goldie smiled, her blue eyes shining innocently. "And I'm not a tart."

  "In the bar? Christ, you're supposed to be in the bloody dining room! Have you no idea what your duties are?" Apart from opening your legs on demand?

  "You told me to excavate the bar whenever the fire bells..."

  "Evacuate, not excavate! Jesus Christ, where the hell were you educated, in a psychiatric ward for criminal lunatics? Anyway, that only applies when the bar's open. You can't evacuate an empty bar, you silly girl, it's physically impossible."

  "Well, I thought it best to check. Have you seen the local paper?"

  "Fuck me, as if I've got the time or the inclination to read that subhuman drivel!"

  "The police are after a man who's been exposing himself. One young woman he flashed his cock at is an artist. She's drawn a sketch of him, the picture's in the paper." She paused, scrutinizing Mike. "He's about forty with dark hair, just like you."

  "Me?"

  "Yes, the likeness is incredible."

  "Yes, well... we're not here to discuss the banal contents of the local paper!" Mike stormed, grabbing the ringing phone. "Good morning, Stokepot Towers."

  "Mr Hunt?" a man asked.

  "Yes, yes!"

  "I'm calling about your VAT returns."

  "What about them?"

  "I haven't got them."

  "Is that my problem?"

  "Well, yes it is."

  "Look, I'm having enough difficulty trying to run my hotel, I can't run your office as well! Call some temporary staff in from an agency."

  "I'm not asking you to run my office, Mr Hunt, I'm asking you where your VAT returns are."