Now here was a punter who looked truly interested, thought Ray, as he watched a man peering through the window of a Datsun Cherry which had just come in, analysing the condition of the interior with a scrutinising glance. He'd examined every car on the forecourt at least twice and he didn't appear to be thinking of leaving any time soon. It was time for Ray to swoop in on him - he might finally impress his uncle with his vastly improving car flogging skills. "Can I help you, sir?"
"I was looking for Arthur, actually," the blond chap responded, one hand placed casually on the bonnet, as if he owned the place. Little did Ray know that he had once ran it, even if it had never belonged to him
"He isn't here right now, but I know all about the motors," Ray had a winning smile, and Terry had definitely noticed.
"I always did wonder who Arthur had doing his dirty work these days. You look like a nice lad. What are you doing wiv 'im?" Terry had travelled halfway across the globe to get away from Arthur, leaving nothing but his Ford Capri on the driveway and a note saying he'd eloped to Australia with his latest squeeze. And that had been an absolute disaster. He hadn't known what had been more unbearable - the climate out there, and the effect it had on poor Celtic skin, or the constant griping from 'er indoors. God, he was beginning to sound like Arthur. He'd returned to Blighty with the hope of picking up a bit of work (naturally, this was a last resort), and it looked like he might stand a chance picking up more than that.
The salesman did indeed seem a nice lad - a nice-looking lad, realised Terry, as he looked him up and down, and unwittingly ran a tongue over his lips. Terry had changed since Arthur had last seen him - a lot; he'd always tried to avoid trouble since being released from prison (in spite of Arthur's best efforts), and these days he was actually managing to do so, successfully. And birds were nothing but bother, he'd found, in the end, with their wild bloody emotions and violent exes, and he'd been better off without them; he never attracted the right kind of women anyway. So the thought of a fella with feminine enough features, fresh and youthful in appearance, but - with his head screwed on the right way - piqued his interest. He'd been waiting for that certain someone to jump out and grab his attention. Well, the boy to catch his eye just simply had to be one of them, didn't he?
"--Ray Daley. Pleased to meet you. And you are?" A Daley. Here to ruin his life again - albeit, a prettier one this time. He had to be cursed.
"Terry McCann," he outstretched his hand and shook Ray's hand, "You're related to the old sod - that says a lot." Who else would be daft enough to be led astray by Arthur? Who else other than Terry?
"I've heard a lot about you," Ray beamed, "All positive, of course. Uncle Arthur often talks about you."
Yes, thought Terry - his name had never been too far from Arthur's lips - especially when the old fool had gotten himself into some ridiculous scrape or other.
"Said you were a boxer," Daley added. "I've got to say," he snorted, "You don't look like one."
"Oi, I could teach you a thing or two," Terry smirked, in a telling way.
"I bet you could," Ray held his gaze and, for a second, there was a pause. Ray often indulged in flirting and playful banter when trying to get customers to buy the cars - but, more often than not, it was with the ladies. Not always, however. "Arthur's just nipped down the Winchester. He'll be back soon. Come and wait in the office," he guided Terry to the small building at the rear of the car lot, jangling his keys as he unlocked and pushed open the door.
"Yes," said the younger man, slumping down into the leather swivel chair, feet up on the desk, "I look after all of this." He was trying make himself seem more appealing but, really, all of the work had been done - McCann was already quite taken with him. There was something about the Daleys which always seemed to have him hooked in one way or another.
"Arthur never said he had such a handsome nephew," Terry half-whispered, grazing his fingernails over Ray's extended legs, teasing the taut flesh of a thigh through the fabric of his trousers.
"We can't do that," came an even more hushed reply, "Not in Arthur's office." Working as his uncle's minder, Ray couldn't be seen to be frightened of much, but getting caught at it with another bloke when he should be out front watching the motors was one way to seriously incur Arthur's wrath.
"Who's gonna find out?" Terry replied. As if that answer couldn't have been more obvious. However, soon, in a frenzy of limbs - with one hand grabbing the hard bulge forming in Ray's maroon suit, and the other grasping at strands of mousy brown hair, Terry was kissing Ray with such a force that his chair was thrown back against the wall, and the castors were spinning like a casino's roulette wheels - and the less said about those places, the better. Arthur was always losing his money and sending Terry to sort things out; Terry wondered if he treated Ray the same way. Why was he thinking about Arthur when he should have been thinking about Ray? Maybe it was ever-present in the back of his mind that Ray was Arthur's flesh and blood. Maybe it was the ever-present thought that Arthur might just walk--
"Oh, my good gawd," came the exclamation - along with the sound of a door being flung open in surprise.
Terry managed to tear himself away from Ray's lips, grinning; Ray, on the other hand, was notably paler. "Arthur," he declared.
"Terrence," Arthur gasped, eventually catching his breath. "Well, son... You always did like to make an entrance..."