Free Stuff (The Bristol Collection) by Josephine Myles Page A

doubt the morning’s activities must rate pretty low on Mas’s scale of fun things to do with a day.
    “I’ve been thinking,” Mas announced as he reached the bottom of the stairs. “The two of us, I think we could help each other out.”
    “We could?”
    “Yep. You’re in dire need of someone to sort out and manage your shop, and I’m in dire need of a job. How about it? I could turn this place into the kind of vintage boutique people flock to from miles around, and you could concentrate on your creations. I’ll even work on selling them for you. Reckon they’d fit in nicely with the other stuff once I get those showrooms all tarted up. You’ve got this whole weirdy Victorian thing going on with them.”
    Perry shrugged, unwilling to convey just how nervous the idea of showing his art had made him. Putting it out there in front of the world would take reserves of courage and energy he just didn’t have. As would tidying up the shop. But if Mas was offering to do it for him… The idea of being able to spend his days immersed in his workshop without having to keep half an ear on the bell was a tempting one. And so was the idea of spending more time with Mas. There was one problem, though. A major one at that. “I can’t afford to employ you.”
    “Well duh. I figured as much. Especially seeing as how you don’t seem to make any money whatsoever. Unless you’re living on some trust fund or fat inheritance, I don’t see how you can survive.”
    “Barely. I do get some income. Weekends are busier.” Although the trade had been declining over the last six months after a few of his regulars moved out of town. The trust fund could be his if he toed the line with his father, but he’d rather be penniless and free. Or free-ish. There was still the shop, weighing him down with all that responsibility.
    “How much are you making a week?”
    Perry looked at his shoes. “On average? Around two hundred and fifty. And most of that goes on the rates and bills.” And that average had dwindled to more like one hundred and fifty just recently, but he really didn’t want to admit to such pathetic takings.
    Mas gave a slow whistle. “Oh, baby. I can be bringing in at least that much every weekday before you know it. And way more at the weekends. There’s folks in this town with money to burn. You’ve just gotta tempt them in here.”
    “I can’t see that happening here. It’s too rough an area.”
    Mas shook his head. “Stokes Croft? Baby, this is the most happening part of town right now. It’s on the up. People love it because it’s got an edgy vibe, but it’s safe enough to walk around with your iPhone on show. So long as you stick to the main roads, anyway. Believe you me, give it a year or so and we’ll have a trendy coffee shop on every bloody street corner. My ex-landlord just sold my building to a property development company. You can bet it’ll be full of young execs before you know it.”
    Perry pictured the area with all the character rubbed away, along with the murals. “I’m not sure I want that to happen.”
    “Like it or not, it will. All I’m saying is you should make the most of it. Jump on the wave rather than drowning. If you don’t make this place turn over a profit, you’ll be forced out by rising rates when your landlord realises he can get more money for this place.”
    “It’s not that simple.” How to explain the arcane intricacies of Aunt Betty’s will? It wasn’t the kind of thing most people had any experience of. And besides, it was rather humiliating to still be at the beck and call of someone from beyond the grave.
    “And I reckon you’re just scared of trying something different.”
    Perry was about to protest, but then he had to concede Mas’s point. “Perhaps…”
    “There’s no perhaps about it. You’ve gone and got yourself stuck in a rut, haven’t you? Good thing I’m here to drag you out of it. Now here’s the deal. You can manage on £250 a week at