Be My Best Man Read online

  Be My Best Man

  Con Riley

  Figment Ink

  Be My Best Man

  Copyright © 2017 Con Riley

  Figment Ink

  Cover Artist: Black Jazz Design

  Editor: Labyrinth Bound Edits

  The Licensed Art Material is being used for illustrative purposes only.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are product of the author imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  Also by Con Riley

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by Con Riley

  Also by Con Riley

  The Seattle Series

  After Ben

  Saving Sean

  Aiden’s Luck

  The Salvage Series

  Salvage

  Recovery

  Standalone Novels

  True Brit

  Must Like Spinach

  Be My Best Man

  by

  Con Riley

  ~ Will Jason’s third time as a best man lead to first-time love for Vanya?

  After fleeing violence in Moscow, student teacher Vanya Petrov winds up lonely in a run-down London hostel. At least visiting the Bond Street store where his roommate works lets him practice his English, but as Vanya's vocabulary expands, so does his isolation, especially when he sees happy couples planning their perfect weddings.

  According to Jason Balfour, weddings are a waste of time and money. After all, he’s been best man for his brother twice already. Saying that a third marriage will end in divorce too leads to an angry ultimatum: to save his relationship with his brother, Jason must meet his fiancée, at last, and make a good first impression.

  Jason’s need to dress to impress brings Vanya and him together. Language is no barrier to falling in love with the young and fragile Russian, and neither is their age difference. But Vanya’s bruised soul carries secrets that could rip them apart. As the wedding draws near, Vanya must confess, and soon, or risk losing Jason—his own best man in Britain.

  Dedication

  I’m grateful, as always, to the people who help me: Allan, Becky, Ed, Nic, and Posy are all absolute stars.

  Special thanks go to Jo for her early critical insight, and to Garrett for the cover of my dreams.

  I appreciate you!

  Chapter One

  All that blocks Vanya Petrov from his future are four rows of plastic seating.

  They shouldn’t be a barrier to a brand-new start in Britain, yet each row is filled with people who seek the same outcome. Every seat is taken, the immigration centre full to bursting, its air stale and thickly humid compared to the thin chill of autumn outside.

  He first sat here in springtime, hope sparking with each meeting. Summer brought more check-ins, eroding his optimism. Now he has no expectations, killing time people-watching while listening for his number.

  A man seated dead ahead is restless, his biceps tensing and releasing in a compelling rhythm. It’s hard to look away until Vanya remembers the first rule London taught him.

  He should mind his own business.

  That resolve lasts for a whole thirty seconds before his gaze slowly drifts back.

  Minding his own business would be easier if this stranger wasn’t his type, tight T-shirt stretched across broad shoulders in a way that leaves his mouth dry, his dark hair unruly compared to Vanya’s own neat and tidy blondness. From behind, he ticks every single box on Vanya’s mental hook-up checklist.

  We’d look good together. He’s tall. I’d fit right under his shoulder.

  Forget a one-time hook-up. One day, someone like this could be his first boyfriend.

  Wishful thinking unspools, threadlike, as Vanya daydreams.

  I could look for someone like him once I’m granted asylum.

  Negative thoughts quickly follow.

  Unless they send me back to Russia.

  It’s been almost eight months already, his faith rising before falling as each meeting brings no firm decision. The lows are hard to weather when they’re coupled with restrictions about his stay in Great Britain. Other worries also wash in.

  Someone built like him could hurt me again.

  It’s challenging to remain positive when his insides knot so tightly, but doing so is vital. Fear has to stay in the past. Hope has to be his driver—his one and only focus—and all that keeps him from hope are these rows of plastic seating. Why each chair is screwed fast to the floor like someone might want to steal it is hard to frame in English. Consonants jostle vowels as he tries, like his elbows do with his neighbours. He presses his lips together rather than sound stupid in public.

  So much for English being a favourite subject at school. It turns out real fluency is beyond him. Sitting in complete silence is safer, even if it’s lonely.

  Time crawls as Vanya waits. He wonders whether everyone here feels the same way. Do they exhale aspiration as the minutes oh-so-slowly tick past only to inhale doubt with their next breath, or are they doing better than him? It’s impossible to tell when so many languages divide them.

  Counting his blessings is another way to keep mentally busy.

  He lists them to pass time.

  He’s grateful for the shower he had this morning at the hostel, even if it was tepid. And he’s so lucky to have a room in that building, even if some of the Brits living there are resentful. The small amount of money the government grants him is enough to eat daily, if he’s careful, but his Estonian roommate is his biggest blessing.

  The days before he met Kaspar were his loneliest on this planet.

  Vanya covers his eyes for a second rather than recall his first weeks on this island. Bursts of colour spangle his vision when they reopen. Scarlet turbans catch his eye to the right, the heads of their worried wearers bent close together. To his left, bright headscarves contrast with the clouded expressions of the women who wear them. If their circumstances were different, this room could host the United Nations, only these anxious people aren’t esteemed emissaries from the world’s four corners.

  Far from it.

  They’re immigrants, just like him, desperately hoping to stay despite England’s lukewarm welcome.

  Vanya shifts to ease the onset of pins and needles, bumping the arm of the woman next to him. It’s accidental, but the flicker of scared confusion that meets his instinctive use of Russian makes him truly sorry.

  He must have worn the same expression so often when
he first set foot in London.

  The sheaf of paperwork she clutches is thin compared to his fat folder, suggesting she’s new to the UK, but when she pulls her children to her, overwhelmed translates no matter her first language.

  A mother alone with her kids shouldn’t ever look so frightened.

  Vanya knows his English is still poor, but breaking their silence seems more important than worrying about sounding stupid. “Sorry.” He mimes bumping her elbow with his. “Didn’t mean. Was accident.”

  Another expression flickers across her face—almost a smile this time—and he’s pleased he made an effort. That smile slides to panic as a number is called out. Her anxiety is familiar and all too fresh for Vanya to ignore. He repeats the number for her, pronouncing his words very carefully while smiling at her children.

  “Five more,” he offers after spying the ticket she clasps. “Then I’m think it is your turn.” He holds up his hand and wiggles his fingers, tickled when both her children mirror his gesture. “Five more, then you.”

  At first, confusion furrows her brow. Vanya points at her ticket and then at the desks where immigration officers hold interviews in full view, like privacy for displaced people doesn’t matter. Comprehension slowly dawns, and she holds up five fingers of her own before nodding. Her children echo his quick “Yes, five more” like parrots, startling him into laughter. That light moment suddenly darkens when the guy sitting in front of them shoots to his feet.

  It’s an explosion of sudden movement accompanied by blasts of foreign cursing.

  Vanya reacts on instinct.

  He lurches sideways, folder raised like it might shield the children. Then he lists away just as abruptly, his heart sickly thumping.

  What the hell is he thinking?

  This waiting room is nothing like the dark alley that still gives him nightmares.

  No one will attack him here.

  Yes, the guy who shot to his feet is a whole lot bigger than him, but he’s likely only waging his own battle with a cramp or pins and needles.

  Vanya avoids his neighbour’s concerned expression. She’s still watching when he glances sideways. He averts his gaze completely to avoid seeing any pity for his fearful reaction. Instead, he watches as the man who caused his alarm first stamps feeling back into his feet and then twists from side to side a few times. When he stretches both arms upward, the thin cotton of his T-shirt lifts to reveal where his lower back meets pale blue denim. Vanya focuses on the strip of skin visible only a few inches from him. When the man twists again, he catches Vanya staring.

  A glance—surprised before subtly warming—meets with his and holds it.

  Vanya fumbles his folder open rather than prolong it.

  He hangs his head, staring blindly at words that panic renders senseless, studying documents that blur rather than trust the gut instinct that suggests a shared spark of interest.

  His instincts can’t be trusted.

  That’s why he’s stuck here, after all, thousands of miles from family and friends, separated from all his fellow students instead of graduating with them.

  So what if he won’t ever get to have a teaching career like the rest of his cohort?

  At least no one here has tried to kill him.

  Besides, even if he walks the whole way home on his knees, he’ll never be made welcome again, especially by his father.

  No.

  Exile from his family is permanent.

  Vanya hangs his head even lower until a child taps on his knee. He takes the piece of paper she shyly offers. More have spilt from his lap and her brother holds them. Thank God none of them feature the grim photos supporting his plea for asylum.

  “Thank you,” he quietly offers.

  Again, they parrot his words, and the world seems a little brighter when they giggle.

  He counts aloud as the children return each sheet, pronouncing the words as clearly as he knows how. “One. Two. Three.” Their sweet smiles dull the sharp edge of his panic, widening as he folds one of the sheets of paper until it concertinas. He gets a quiet but perfect, “Thank you,” from the girl in return for the fan he fashions. A few more folds and her brother clutches a fan of his own. Vanya describes each step as he makes a third fan, using his simplest English, pleased as the words come to him.

  “See how I’m fold?” He glances up and pauses. “Now I’m do again.”

  “And again!” The girl can’t be much older than six or seven, the same age group he’d been training to teach before….

  No.

  No.

  Twenty-two is too young to live in the past. Doing so won’t help these kids either, if they’re ever going to fit in. Vanya forces a smile he hopes seems natural and flaps his fan in front of his face until he has their full attention. “Lovely weather,” he says very carefully. Fluttering his eyelashes provokes a fresh gale of laughter. “For time of year.”

  There.

  A phrase any true Brit would be proud of.

  His heart swells beyond reason when the girl tries so hard to repeat him. Then it rises to his throat, frozen despite the waiting room’s heat when his own number is finally called out.

  Vanya is hours late to meet his roommate. The West End department store where Kaspar works is busy. He isn’t at his usual station in the menswear section. It’s a relief to finally spy him in the next department, unpacking elegant champagne flutes.

  “What are you doing in the wedding section?” His question goes unanswered. Kaspar just slides glassware back into its box before gripping Vanya firmly by the elbow. He steers him to a fitting room nearby, not letting go until he checks each cubicle is empty. When he speaks, worry thickens his accent.

  “What the fuck do you think I’m doing? I had to stay out of management’s way so they couldn’t fire me for lending my work shirt to you.”

  It’s so good to hear Russian, even if so accented and angry that Vanya’s eyes sting for a moment. They prickle for a little longer when he gets pulled into a fierce hug. Kaspar’s beard tickles his cheek, his next words even rougher. “I didn’t know what to do when you didn’t come back to the hostel before my shift started. Should I come to work like normal, even if that meant begging a spare T-shirt from a stock boy, or should I try to find out if you…?” His hand steals to the back of Vanya’s neck, and he shakes him a little. “I thought they detained you.” He’s gruff. “If you’d let me buy you a phone, you could have texted.”

  A phone is the last thing Vanya wants.

  He’ll never own another after the trouble his last one caused him.

  “No. Don’t waste your money. You do enough for me already. I’m sorry I took forever.” He should know better after so many of these pointless meetings. It was stupid of him to think it wouldn’t take up the whole morning. “Swap with me now.” He undoes a few buttons of the plain black shirt he’d borrowed, hopeful that dressing well might somehow make a difference.

  “No. Keep it. My manager’s gone now, so you might as well.” His grip on Vanya gentles. “I was worried, that’s all. I don’t ever mind you borrowing my clothes.”

  “I know.” Kaspar shares easily after rooming with him for months. What started as a strategic arrangement to watch each other’s backs in a house that’s often hostile now feels like real friendship. Still, guilt tugs hard at Vanya, only loosening its grip when Kaspar checks his hair in a mirror, the tips of his ears pink. “Besides, it’s not all been bad. Working in the wedding section means I’ve seen a lot of Anna.”

  “You should ask her out. She likes you.”

  Kaspar’s eyes meet with his. “She does? How can you tell?”

  Months of being a bystander finally count for something. “Because she watches you almost as much as you watch her.”

  “Hmm.” Kaspar isn’t convinced. “You really think she likes me?”

  “What’s not to like? You helped carry all her stuff up to her room when she moved into the hostel. And you told her about the job vacancy here. You even come fro
m the same city. She’d have to be as stupid as you to turn down a date.”

  “I’m only as stupid as the company I keep, Ivanushka.” It’s an insult that ends in fondness, the name Kaspar uses reserved for family. And that’s what he is, Vanya guesses. The closest thing to family he has here in Britain. His smile only fades when Kaspar asks, “So, what happened at your appointment? What did they say?”

  “Still no firm decision.”

  “Why is it taking forever?” His exasperation echoes Vanya’s. “Asylum claims for people like you should go through the fastest.”

  People like him.

  Embarrassment stains his best friend’s throat when he realises what he’s implied, but Vanya goes ahead and says what had been impossible to admit aloud before coming to this country. “I’m gay, not made of glass. Maybe they think I’m strong enough to wait a little longer.” That’s what he told himself as he turned away from the official who had barely glanced at the fresh evidence he presented.

  “But why make you wait at all? I never heard of another case so clear-cut.”

  “They didn’t say why.” Maybe someone else’s need was greater, although that’s hard to swallow. It’s the only reason that makes sense, one that reminds him of the children he sat with, who were still waiting when he left.