Terribly tristan bad boy.., p.1
Terribly Tristan (Bad Boyfriends, Inc.), page 1
Table of Contents
Books by Lisa Henry & Sarah Honey
Title Page
Legal Page
Book Description
Dedication
Trademark Acknowledgements
Australian English Glossary
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
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About the Authors
Pride Publishing books by Lisa Henry and Sarah Honey
Bad Boyfriends, Inc.
Awfully Ambrose
Horribly Harry
Bad Boyfriends, Inc.
TERRIBLY TRISTAN
LISA HENRY &
SARAH HONEY
Terribly Tristan
ISBN # 978-1-83943-236-1
©Copyright Lisa Henry & Sarah Honey 2022
Cover Art by Erin Dameron-Hill ©Copyright October 2022
Interior text design by Claire Siemaszkiewicz
Pride Publishing
This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Pride Publishing.
Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Pride Publishing. Unauthorised or restricted acts in relation to this publication may result in civil proceedings and/or criminal prosecution.
The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.
Published in 2022 by Pride Publishing, United Kingdom.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the authors’ rights. Purchase only authorised copies.
Pride Publishing is an imprint of Totally Entwined Group Limited.
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book”.
Book three in the
Bad Boyfriends, Inc. series
One and done has always been the rule—so what happens when once isn’t enough?
Leo Fisher is the outward picture of respectability, just like his parents raised him to be. But when he inherits a crumbling terrace house from his great-uncle, he also inherits a tenant who turns his world upside down. Tristan is brazen, gorgeous, experienced and utterly fabulous. He’s everything Leo is not—so why is Leo drawn to him? Leo has always made the right choices—the sensible choices—yet here he is, hooking up with his tenant, who’s a rent boy.
Tristan Montague is not a rent boy. Not exactly. He’s a Bad Boyfriend. For a fee, he’ll turn any date into the kind of disaster that will have his client’s unsuspecting parents begging them to date anyone but him. Boyfriending for cash is fun—but for real? No thanks. As far as Tristan is concerned, there are far too many flowers in the garden of love to settle on just one bloom. Instead, he flits happily from lover to lover like a glorious gay butterfly, and he doesn’t do repeats.
Except when he meets his cute, awkward landlord Leo, Tristan finds himself rethinking his ‘no repeats’ rule. He plans to show Leo that he, too, can be a glorious gay butterfly, but when physical attraction becomes something deeper, Tristan realizes he might be ready to hang up his wings and date…for real.
But in order for Leo to take a stand against his overbearing parents, Tristan will need to play the Bad Boyfriend one last time—and it’s going to have to be spectacular.
Dedication
To Jane, the stampiest unicorn, with so much love for all her support.
Trademark Acknowledgements
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:
Milo: Nestlé
Uber: Uber Technologies, Inc.
Daft Punk: Thomas Bangalter and Guy-Manuel de Homem Cristo
Gimme! Gimme! Gimme!: Benny Andersson and Björn Ulvaeus
Chaka Khan: Yvette Marie Stevens
PayPal: PayPal
Google: Google LLC
Netflix: Netflix, Inc.
Sharpie: Newell Brands
Domestos: Unilever
House Beautiful: Hearst Corporation
Commodore: General Motors
Young Liberals: Liberal Party of Australia
Nirvana: Kurt Cobain, Krist Novoselic, Dave Grohl
Wizz Fizz: Fyna Foods Australia Pty Ltd
Tupperware: Tupperware Brands
Hobbits: J. R. R. Tolkien
Sydney Morning Herald: Nine
Red Rooster: Craveable Brands
Lexus: Toyota Motor Corporation
VB (Victoria Bitter): Asahi
H&M: H&M Group
Yoda: Lucasfilm and The Walt Disney Company
Pornhub: MindGeek
Kleenex: Kimberly-Clark
Toxic: Cathy Dennis, Christian Karlsson, Pontus Winnberg, Henrik Jonbak
Nightmare Before Christmas: Touchstone Pictures, Skellington Productions, Buena Vista Pictures Distribution
Shrek: DreamWorks Animation, PDI/DreamWorks
Lightsaber: Lucasfilm and The Walt Disney Company
Advil: GSK
YouTube: Google, LLC
Cadbury’s Selections: Mondelez International
Spanish National Lottery: Loterías y Apuestas del Estado
Coles: Coles Supermarkets Australia Pty Ltd
Bad Dragon: Bad Dragon Enterprises, Inc.
Adultshop: adultshop.com
MacBook Pro: Apple, Inc.
Facebook: Meta Platforms, Inc.
Spider-Man: Marvel Entertainment LLC
Burberry: Burberry
Tim Tams: Arnott’s Biscuits Holdings
Miami Vice: Michael Mann Productions and Universal Television
NRL Grand Final: National Rugby League
Supercuts: Supercuts Australia
Queer Eye: Scout Productions and Bravo
Scarlett O’Hara: Margaret Mitchell
Audi: Volkswagen Group
Charlie’s Angels: Sony Pictures Entertainment
Macarena: Rafael Ruiz Perdigones and Antonio Romero Monge
Trivial Pursuit: Hasbro
Doc Martens: Dr. Martens
Perfect Day: Lou Reed
Bluetooth: Bluetooth Special Interest Group
Australian English Glossary
Bludger: A lazy person
Bottlo: A liquor store
CBD: Sydney Central Business District
Fossick: Rummage, search
Fluro paint: Fluorescent paint
RDO: Rostered Day Off
Slab (of beer): A twenty-four-pack of beer
Smoko: A short break
Sparky: An electrician
Stat Dec: Statutory Declaration, a legal document containing a statement of truth
Swimmers: A swimsuit, swimming trunks
Tradie: A tradesperson, someone who works with their hands
Chapter One
On an otherwise unremarkable Saturday morning, Tristan Montague was woken by a hard pounding. And not the sort he liked. The sort he liked, he realised as he unglued his eyelids, wouldn’t be forthcoming at all—last night’s hook-up was still crashed out beside him flat on his back, with his mouth open as he snored. This pounding, unfortunately, was coming from his bedroom door.
“Wha?” Tristan grizzled. The house had better be on fire, seriously, because it was only—he flopped an arm out, fingers searching for his phone on his nightstand—11.37 a.m. That was inhumane for a Saturday. Unless it was Sunday—but no, it would be just as inhumane for a Sunday.
The pounding on his door continued.
Tristan rolled out of bed and shuffled to his door. He pulled it open and glared at Harry, his housemate.
“Tristan!” Harry exclaimed, then his wide-eyed gaze travelled down Tristan’s naked body and back again. By the time it returned to his face, Harry was bright pink in that adorkable way that made Tristan want to ruffle his hair, pinch his cheeks and possibly rail him over the back of the couch into next week. Harry was out of bounds, though. Not only was he like the awkward little brother Tristan had never had, but Harry was also stupidly in love with Jack, their other housemate. They gave each other such heart eyes over breakfast each morning that Tristan half expected the local wildl
There wasn’t really anything Tristan could say to that, so he nodded and waved his hand in front of himself like a showcase model on a television game show.
Harry’s blush extended all the way up to his glasses. “Like, really, all the way, naked.”
He sighed. “Did you wake me up just to tell me that?”
Harry blinked at him. “No! I woke you up to tell you that Mr. Erskine is dead!”
“Oh.” Tristan felt a moment of actual regret. Their landlord was at least six hundred years old, and batshit crazy in the best possible way. He loved to drop in and collect the rent money from the Milo tin in the kitchen, then spend hours regaling Tristan with stories of the Cross back in the seventies. And Tristan loved listening, because Kings Cross back in the day had been wild. “I thought the Milo tin was getting full.”
“I thought he’d just forgotten to collect the rent.”
Tristan sighed again. “Wow. That really, really sucks. Mr. Erskine was an awesome old bloke.”
“He once offered me a hundred dollars to play with his hair,” Harry said, his brows pulling together. “Which didn’t make any sense, because he was bald.”
“Well, not everywhere, probably.”
Harry blinked rapidly. “Oh. I didn’t think of that.” His mouth turned down. “Ew. Was he sexually harassing me?”
“To be fair, I think he sexually harassed everyone without realising it,” Tristan said. “Oh, man. What’s going to happen to this place, do you think?”
Harry looked slightly panicked. “I don’t know! I can’t afford to live anywhere else!”
The old terrace house in Dickson Street, Newtown, was a complete dump. It was the rotten, blackened tooth in an otherwise pristine smile of gorgeously renovated veneers, but it was cheap. Well, cheap by Sydney standards, at least. Which wasn’t saying much. Tristan would be okay whatever happened, but Harry and Jack were on incredibly tight budgets.
“I mean, these things take months, right?” Tristan asked. “Wills and probate and all that bullshit. And there’s probably some law that you can’t just throw tenants out on the street without notice. Isn’t there?”
Harry chewed his bottom lip. “I don’t know.”
“Hey, don’t stress about it,” Tristan said, even though it was pointless, because Harry stressed about everything. “It’ll all work out in the end.” He lifted his nose and sniffed as the scent of bacon and eggs cooking reached him, and his stomach growled. He brightened. “Is Jack making breakfast?”
Harry blocked him as he tried to step out of the room. “Tris!”
“What?”
“You’re naked.”
“Oh yeah.” He reached around to grab his robe off the hook on the back of his door. “Breakfast first, then crisis, okay?”
Harry nodded unhappily, and they headed down the stairs.
* * * *
Mr. Erskine’s funeral was held on a Wednesday afternoon at the non-denominational chapel of a funeral home in King Street, Newtown. Tristan, Jack and Harry arrived just in time to see Miss O’Jenny, one of the local drag queens at the Palace, his favourite gay bar and drag club, extracting herself from an Uber. It might have taken her less time if she’d been wearing a wig that was less than half a metre tall, but it was at least diverting to watch. Ambrose and Liam, who had managed to score a park on the street, stopped to help her. The day was bright and sunny, somehow incongruous for a funeral, and the sequins on Miss O’Jenny’s gown glittered like a disco ball in the sunlight.
“Darling!” she exclaimed when she saw Tristan, and he pushed himself up onto his toes to kiss her on the cheek. Then she caught sight of Harry. “Darling!”
She reeled Harry into a hug, pressing his face into her bosom and holding him there while he struggled to breathe. Jack extracted him and helped him straighten his glasses.
“Isn’t it just awful?” Miss O’Jenny held a hand to her now-Harry-free bosom. “God, it’s like the end of an era, isn’t it? Not that I’m admitting how old I am—”
“God forbid,” Tristan said, earning himself a smack on the arse with her handbag.
“Not that I’m admitting how old I am,” she continued, “but back when I was just a fresh-faced country boy from Taree, Jimmy bought me my first drink and my first set of tits.” She sniffled, then tugged a lacy handkerchief from her handbag. “My fucking mascara’s going to run, isn’t it?”
“You look gorgeous,” Tristan said, looking around at the people arriving. He knew quite a few of the faces—a few more drag queens, Wei from the adult shop and a couple of the pole dancers and the bartender from The Palace. But there were also a bunch of serious-faced people who were looking back at them like they were the ones who didn’t belong here. As soon as they went inside the chapel, Tristan saw that the lines had been well and truly drawn. The left side of the chapel was full of queens, go-go boys and queer octogenarians who must have been Mr. Erskine’s peers. The right side of the chapel had about a pew and half filled with people in sensible suits and blouses in varying shades of black, with nary a sequin among them.
In fairness, Tristan was also wearing black, but he was wearing it with style. He’d specifically worn the leather pants that Mr. Erskine had always said made his arse look delicious. He felt like the old man would have appreciated the gesture.
“Did Mr. Erskine have a secret double life as an accountant?” he asked, helping Miss O’Jenny into a pew.
Miss O’Jenny huffed out a bitter laugh. “Oh, that would be his family.”
She said it in a way that made Tristan want to reach past all her battle makeup and find that fresh-faced country boy from Taree and tell him that he’d be okay. But he nodded instead, then sat down beside her in the pew.
Harry and Jack squeezed in beside him. Ambrose and Liam sat behind them with Wei.
The service was short and sombre, and there was nothing in the eulogy that reminded Tristan of the man he’d known at all. The family sat stoically through the entire thing without a ripple of emotion crossing their faces, except for one young man, who looked genuinely devastated when they reached the end of the service and the coffin went rumbling on tracks through a curtain at the back, presumably for cremation. Tristan watched as the young man’s throat bobbed and he ran the heel of his hand over his eyes, presumably fighting back tears.
He was attractive, in a tense, rumpled-accountant kind of way. He was also wearing black, but interestingly, Tristan spotted a discreet rainbow pin on his lapel. The guy looked to be in his late twenties. He had dark, wavy hair with curls that brushed the collar of his jacket, a dusting of rather enticing stubble along his jaw and wide, expressive brown eyes that were distinctly red-rimmed. He was shorter than Tristan—although since Tristan was six feet four, most people were—and compactly built. If it hadn’t been a funeral, Tristan might have hit on him, but even he had some decorum, apparently.
He’d wait for the wake, like a decent person.
Although now that he thought about it, the guy was sitting with the family. Maybe, Tristan speculated as they filed towards the side room for tea and sandwiches, he was Jimmy Erskine’s boyfriend, and that was why he’d been welcomed into the family fold. It wouldn’t surprise Tristan in the least to find that Mr. Erskine had a pretty boy one-third his age warming his bed, and he felt a pang of sympathy for the guy as he watched him fill a plate with finger sandwiches then stare at them, unseeing.
Deciding that the least he could do was offer a shoulder to cry on, he stepped in closer and placed a hand on the man’s arm. The guy startled and almost dropped his plate, but Tristan managed to save it. “Sorry,” he whispered, before wondering why he was whispering. It was a funeral, not a library.
The guy frowned at him. “Do I know you?”
“No, but I just wanted to offer my condolences,” Tristan said, petting the man’s sleeve for no good reason.
