The Last One to Let You Down Read online

  The Last One to Let You Down

  K. L. Hiers

  Copyright © 2020 by K.L. Hiers

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author.

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

  The Last One to Let You Down

  Hiers, K.L.

  Proofread by Jennifer Griffin of Marked and Read

  Edited by Elouise East

  Formatted by A.G. Carothers

  Cover Art © Covers by Jo

  Cover content is for illustrative purposes only and any person depicted is a model.

  First Print Edition

  ISBN: 9798557849975

  Contents

  Attention

  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

  About the Author

  Also by K. L. Hiers

  Attention

  This book includes intense sexual scenes, rough spankings, and depictions of death and embalming as they relate to the funeral industry. If this material offends or may upset you, please don’t read this book.

  “I think I’m finally done,” Thomas Hill declared, leaning back in his stool to admire his work.

  “Wow,” Aaron Stutz said with a low whistle, coming up beside him to look at the deceased woman on the embalming table. “She looks incredible, Tom. I can’t even see the edges of your waxwork or anything.”

  “Thanks.” Tom was absolutely beaming as he and his coworker both admired the fine restorative job he’d done.

  The woman appeared to be resting peacefully, and there was no sign anything was amiss.

  “Why’s it always gotta be the money side, huh?” Aaron snorted.

  “That’s the way it goes,” Tom replied with a chuckle. “I guess that side of her face tasted better?”

  Tom was an embalmer, and he’d been working at Crosby-Ayers Funeral Home in Mayfield, North Carolina, for over ten years. He’d done his apprenticeship there after graduating mortuary school and had stayed on once he’d gotten his license. The funeral home was busy enough to support him working solely as an embalmer, and he didn’t have to meet with families like Aaron, who was a funeral director.

  Aaron had the right look for it. He was handsome, olive-skinned with curly black hair and a confident smile. He could offer sympathy with ease and wore a suit well.

  Tom… not so much.

  He felt like a silly kid playing dress-up when he wore a suit, and they were always too tight no matter how much he tried to lose the stubborn weight he carried around his stomach and thighs. He was only wearing one today because he thought he was going to have to help out at a funeral.

  They hadn’t needed him after all, which was fine by Tom. He didn’t do well with the living, and he’d been told more than once that he came across as creepy.

  He was quite pale with chin-length mousy brown hair, and his big blue eyes gave him an owlish appearance. He thought it made him look startled or afraid, not quite right for instilling confidence in a family that he was going to help them through their difficult time.

  It also didn’t help that he was painfully shy.

  Fortunately for Tom, his embalming talents usually kept him in the preparation room and away from families. His specialty was restorative art, repairing those who had suffered traumatic deaths so their families could see them again.

  The woman he had just finished was a Mrs. Jan Winslow, who had died on a Friday, and her body was not found until the following Monday. During that time, her beloved Pomeranian, Mister Doodles, had eaten the entire right half of her face.

  The money side, the right, was what families would view first because of how a person was normally placed in a casket. Discolorations or trauma on the left side were easier to hide, though damage of this magnitude still would have required intense restoration to repair.

  “Walk me through it,” Aaron asked eagerly. “Like, tell me how you do it?”

  “Well, you can’t do anything until after you’ve embalmed them.” Tom stood up and stretched, peeling off his gloves and dropping them into the biohazard trash. “The makeup and wax we use doesn’t stick that great to unembalmed skin. Slides right off if you’re not careful.

  “The next step is cauterizing all of the exposed tissue. Embalming helps dry it out some, but you really wanna make sure it doesn’t leak, so we use other chemicals, cauterants like Dryene, to help. Once the skin is good and dry, then we start filling.”

  “What do you fill it with? I mean, I saw her before. There was a lot missing.”

  “You can use a bunch of different things depending on how big the wound is,” Tom replied, pulling open the prep room door and ushering Aaron out into the hallway.

  It was often full of freshly delivered caskets, stretchers, and bags from the linen service, and today was no different. Tom had to carefully navigate around two caskets and a stack of towels, trying to lead Aaron back out to the offices to continue their conversation.

  “Old school embalmers would use newspaper or cotton,” Tom went on, grabbing his suit jacket off the rack by the office door. “These days, they actually make compounds called ‘wound filler’ to, well, fill wounds. And then—” He paused when he heard a loud slam, glancing back over his shoulder to see what it was.

  At the other end of the hall were three doors. The one on the right led into the walk-in cooler, the one directly opposite the office door was an exit that led into the side parking lot, and the one on the left connected the hallway to the garage. The coaches and limos were stored there, and there was a special door inside the garage for flower deliveries.

  All the doors for employees required a code to enter except for that one, and it stayed unlocked during business hours for flower deliveries. Someone could get inside the garage to drop off arrangements, but they wouldn’t be able to get into the hallway.

  The hallway door to the garage had been left propped open, probably from a casket being delivered earlier, and the sound Tom had heard was the flower delivery door slamming inside the garage. As his heart began to pound in anticipation, he forgot all about Aaron.

  HFG might be here.

  Hot Flower Guy.

  “Hey, where are you going?” Aaron protested.

  “Just go to the office.” Tom was already halfway back down the hall. “I’ll meet you in there.”

  “Okay,” Aaron replied reluctantly. “Then you’ll finish telling me about wound filler stuff?”

  “Scout’s honor.” Tom slowed down as he approached the open door, putting his jacket on and trying not to appear too eager as he stepped inside the garage. He broke into a huge smile when he saw it was HFG in all his bulging glory.

  HFG was black, tall, and broad with thick shoulders and an even thicker beard framing his dark brown fac
e, and Tom had daydreamed about running his hands all over his body. They had barely even spoken more than a few words, but Tom had a definite crush.

  The funeral home hours didn’t give Tom much freedom and being on call almost every night killed any chance of an active social life. After a nasty breakup followed by a disappointing string of one-night stands through dating apps, he’d committed to staying single until the funeral home hired more help.

  In the meantime, he’d grown quite fond of HFG’s deliveries. He didn’t even know his name, but he’d been trying to find out for weeks. HFG was always in and out too quickly to ever strike up a conversation, and Tom wanted a name to go with that gorgeous face.

  It didn’t matter HFG was painfully out of his league—unless he happened to be into pasty white brunettes, who had never grown out of their baby fat, with big chins and an awkward little gap between their front teeth.

  Tom had been cruelly teased about his smile since he was a little kid, no doubt the root of his introverted nature, but he was too excited about seeing HFG to care for once. As he stepped into the garage, however, his joy instantly faded.

  HFG was there, but he was arguing with the assistant manager of the funeral home, Gerald Ayers.

  Gerald was a prick.

  No, he was the absolute king of pricks.

  He was a corpulent king prick whose entire mission in life was to make everyone around him suffer. He’d been working in the funeral business since he was a teenager, back when it was Ayers Funeral Home and before his parents sold it off to the Crosby family who then changed the name. They chose to keep the Ayers moniker as the Ayers family name was well known and had agreed to keep Gerald employed.

  Even though his side of the family didn’t technically own the funeral home now, it didn’t stop Gerald from acting like it. He was a total snob, and everyone did their best to avoid him. Well into his sixties now, the passing of time had only made him meaner. His nasty behavior went completely unchecked because he happened to be a big figure in the local community—church, rotary club, city council—and his influence brought the funeral home a lot of high-profile cases.

  Having had his fair share of run-ins with Gerald over the years, Tom preferred to stay away from him as much as possible. His instincts told him to flee at once, but he found himself frozen in place as he listened to them fight.

  “It’s supposed to be two dozen crimson roses!” Gerald was screaming, his chubby cheeks flushed with rage. “What the fuck am I supposed to do with blue ones? Huh?”

  HFG was totally unmoved by his sweaty rage, calmly replying, “Explain to me how that’s my problem. I delivered what was ordered.”

  “Crimson! Crimson! It’s red, it’s fucking red!” Gerald seethed as he pointed at the very blue casket spray. “Are you some kind of fucking idiot? Can you not fuckin’ read?”

  HFG reached into his back pocket and presented Gerald with an order slip.

  “What the fuck is this?” Gerald snarled as he ripped it out of HFG’s hands.

  “The order.”

  “And?” Gerald squinted. “Cerulean? The fuck is cerulean?”

  “Cerulean,” HFG explained flatly, “is a color ranging from azure to a deep sky blue and is also the color of the flowers that you ordered.”

  “I did not.” Gerald faltered, and he was so angry that he was shaking. “You must have fucked up. This is all fucked up. I’ve got this man in our chapel in his casket and ready to go. I need his fuckin’ flowers now.”

  Tom hadn’t seen Gerald this furious in a long time, and the urge to bolt was growing rapidly. He didn’t want to be inadvertently caught in the crossfire, but this was a train wreck he couldn’t look away from.

  HFG’s smooth handling of the situation was seriously hot. He didn’t look bothered in the slightest, maybe annoyed at best. It was amazing.

  “I get it.” HFG shrugged. “You get to clicking on the website and all those darn ‘c’ words look really similar. Crimson, cerulean. Maybe you need glasses.”

  “You’re bringing a new spray. Now.”

  “Suck my dick.”

  Gerald looked like he was going to blow an artery. “Excuse me?”

  Tom’s stomach lurched, and he had to fight the urge to laugh hysterically. Oh, God. HFG said that. He really said that.

  Out loud.

  To Gerald Benjamin Ayers.

  “Suck. My. Dick,” HFG repeated, enunciating each word deliberately. “You’ve cussed me out, called me everything but a child of God, and you expect me to comp you? I don’t think so.”

  “Do you have any idea who the fuck I am?” Gerald roared. “I’m on the city council—”

  “I know who you are, and I don’t care,” HFG snapped, a small crack in his cool armor appearing. “You aren’t going to speak to me that way. Period.”

  “You… you…!” Gerald couldn’t get any other words out, his finger shaking as he kept on pointing at HFG.

  “Hey! My flowers are here.” Aaron suddenly piped up from behind Tom, brushing by him and hurrying out into the garage. He had probably heard Gerald’s screaming from the damn office.

  “These are yours?” Gerald spat.

  “Yes.” Aaron swept the spray up into his arms. He was so small that his head was just barely visible over the top of the massive arrangement. “They’re for Mrs. Winslow, the lady Tom finished up earlier.” Aaron jerked his head back at Tom. “She’s going in the Churchill Blue casket, and the family wanted the flowers to match.”

  HFG smirked.

  “Well, where the fuck are my flowers? Where are mine?” Gerald barked. “I need the spray for Mr. Hewitt.”

  “His services aren’t until Thursday,” Aaron cautiously reminded him. “We only got him ready today because his priest was coming by. We don’t need the spray until tomorrow.”

  “I knew that. For fuck’s sake. Come the fuck on then,” Gerald grumbled, turning sharply to march back by Tom and into the hallway.

  As Aaron walked by with the flowers, he and Tom exchanged a sympathetic grimace. No one should ever be the victim of Gerald’s wrath, and there was no way he was going to apologize to HFG.

  Tom had hoped for a moment to chat with HFG, maybe finally learn his name, but he seemed busy typing something on his phone. Tom didn’t want to interrupt, and the longer he stood there, the more awkward the silence became.

  What was he supposed to say?

  Sorry, my boss is a raging jackass and cussed you out, but hey, I think you’re hot. Wanna go out with me?

  Turning to unprop the door, Tom figured this wasn’t the best time to flirt. He needed to get back to work before he made this any more uncomfortable.

  “Tom, right?” HFG asked suddenly, flashing a small smile.

  “Huh?” Tom turned back around. “Yeah, hey. You know my name?”

  “You’re the embalmer, yeah?”

  “Yeah.” Tom grinned, immediately ducking his head down to hide his teeth.

  “You’re usually in scrubs when I see you,” HFG explained. “Suit looks good on you.”

  “Wow. Heh. Thanks. I thought I was gonna have to take out a funeral this morning, but uh…” Tom felt his cheeks warming up and stepped away from the door to offer his hand. “Thomas Hill. It’s nice to finally meet you officially.”

  “Cypress Holmes,” he replied, firmly shaking Tom’s hand.

  “You’re usually in and out of here so fast…” Tom laughed nervously. “…I never had the chance to introduce myself before.”

  “It’s okay,” Cypress said with a chuckle. “My delivery schedule can be really tight. Not a lot of time for chit chat.”

  “But now?” Tom asked hopefully.

  “I got a minute.” Cypress crossed his arms. “You been working here long?”

  “Ten years,” Tom replied. “What about you? You been, uh, delivering flowers long?”

  “Two months.” Cypress rolled his eyes. “My last delivery guy quit, and I haven’t been able to find anybody, so I’m making the arr
angements and delivering them all.”

  “Wait, you’re the florist, too?” Tom hated how surprised he sounded.

  “What?” Cypress smiled, clearly amused. “I don’t look like a florist?”

  “Uh, no. I mean…” Tom didn’t have a single decent thing to say.

  You look like you should be naked all the time and oh, my God. This is getting bad. Brain, shut up. Just shut up.

  “It’s okay,” Cypress said, quickly smoothing over the bump with a bright smile. “I don’t think you look like an embalmer, you know.”

  “I don’t?”

  “No,” Cypress confirmed. He leaned in, slowly, and there was a little flash of mischief in his dark eyes.

  Tom couldn’t explain it, but the energy between them had instantly shifted from a casual chat to something else. His heartbeat was starting to pick up, and there was an unmistakable hunger in Cypress’s expression. Tom couldn’t believe it was for him, and the open air of the garage suddenly felt too hot.

  Tom gulped, prompting, “Well, what do I look like?”

  Cypress’s lips parted to answer, teasing, “You look like—”

  A phone rang, interrupting.

  Tom couldn’t possibly quell his disappointment, offering a patient smile in reply to Cypress’s apologetic grimace as he answered the phone.

  “Doyle’s Flowers,” Cypress greeted cordially, his handsome face wrinkling up in obvious irritation.

  Tom knew then their little chat was over, politely taking a few steps back so Cypress could finish his phone call in peace.

  “No,” Cypress said, his tone stern, “he cannot have any of my damn cake. His sugar has been way too high.”

  Tom wondered who HFG was talking about—maybe he had a kid? A dog? Either way, this seemed like a private conversation. He waved and turned to the door, making to leave. He’d finally learned HFG’s name, and he considered this to be a win.