I assume a modest expression, which obviously fails because he starts to laugh. The sight makes me smile a little because he’s so charming. Funny and smart and naughty.
His phone buzzes again, and I wrinkle my nose at him. “Someone definitely wants your attention.”
“And you sound so astonished about the fact.”
“Well, I’m just wondering if they’ve actually met you.”
His laughter attracts glances from the other people in the garden. It fades away though, as he takes his phone out and looks down at the screen. “It’s an old mate wanting me to do a job with him. I don’t know what to do, to be honest.”
I stare at him. His tone is off, and this isn’t the way we do things. We meet up. We banter. We shag. We leave. That’s it. Although the last couple of times, I haven’t exactly rushed out of the bed, and he’s seemed content to lie and chat. However, we’ve never done completely serious before. I bite my lip. Or pained. The idea of him being sad makes my belly clench. It sits wrong on him, like he’s trying on someone else’s clothes.
“What sort of favour? Are you tiling a bathroom in exchange for them buying you a few pints?” I ask, watching his downcast face intently.
When he glances up at me, the wrinkles around his eyes seem to have deepened, making him appear closer to his actual age. “Not exactly. More like a trip to Syria.”
I feel sick at the thought of him going to that warzone, but it’s none of my business, is it? I expel a low whistle. “That’s definitely worth a takeaway at the very least.” He smiles, and I take a sip of the pint that he had waiting for me. “So, what’s the problem? You’ve retired, haven’t you? Tell him no.”
His nod seems begrudging.
“Oh,” I say softly. “That’s the problem, isn’t it? You don’t want to say no?”
He shifts in his seat—a pose that strikes me as defensive.
“There’s nothing wrong with that, Max,” I say softly.
His eyes are dark, almost bruised, as he stares up at me.
“Can you go back?” I ask. He hesitates, and I put my hand up. “Sorry, that was a bit rude. Ignore me.”
“No, it’s okay.” He sighs. “I can’t go back,” he says slowly, staring down at his finger as it rubs across the wood of the pub table. “I tried, and it didn’t work out.”
“How?” I suddenly remember he’d mentioned this before—when he’d talked about not going back to reporting.
He shrugs. “My reflexes were for shit. Me and my photographer ended up taking a bullet.”
I jerk in reaction and hope he doesn’t notice.
He rubs his shoulder. “It was a skin wound for him, but the whole thing was my fault. I didn’t pay attention to my instincts.” He huffs. “I’m not even sure those instincts were there anymore, to be honest.”
“Were you hurt badly?” I hate the thought of him being hurt.
He shrugs in that casual way he has of dismissing any illnesses or injuries. “It was clean through the shoulder, but it hurts now when a cold spell is on the way.”
I know the scar he’s talking about—it’s a mottled starburst that I’ve traced with my fingertips and lips. “You’re like a weathervane,” I say lightly. “You’d make a fortune as a sexy version of Michael Fish.”
“Aren’t you a bit young for that reference?” he asks, wrinkling his nose. “I don’t even think I’m old enough for it.”
“Are you sure? I’m pretty sure he was post-Jurassic period.”
He smiles.
I’m not sure I should continue the conversation, but decide to just go with the flow. “It’s a bit like when I packed up smoking,” I say. It’s a stupid and trite analogy, especially when talking to a wordsmith, and my cheeks begin to heat.
However, he looks at me as if fascinated. “Go on.”
“Well, I knew smoking was bad for me. Everyone told me so. My friends, the government, and those particularly gross adverts they keep plastering all over the Tube. So, I gave in and packed it up.” I lean forward. “But it’s like the more they told me no, the more I wanted to do it, and the less I wanted to listen to them anymore. I only remembered the good things about smoking. The feel of the cigarette in my mouth, that first sharp inhale.” He’s silent, but his eyes are intent on me. I sit back. “So, I started smoking again.”
“Felix, is this your own version of an anti-smoking campaign? Because I think the government adverts are probably more effective.”
I snort. “No. What I’m saying is that no one could tell me to stop doing it. They were absolutely right in what they said, but I wouldn’t listen. So I went back to smoking, and that first cigarette disabused me of the notion that it was great.”
“Why?”
“I threw up in my mouth. It was fucking rank.” I grimace. “And then I packed up, but it worked that time, because it was me calling the shots.” I smile at him. “It’s the same with your job. Anyone can tell you that it’s dangerous and you could die, but you have to decide for yourself, Max, and then maybe you’ll stick with it.”
He watches me for a too-long second and then suddenly smiles. “You’re actually very wise, Felix, aren’t you?”
“Should not be said in such a tone of surprise.” I smile at him as he laughs, relieved to hear the familiar sound of his laughter. “So, what do you think you’ll do?”
He sits back and drains his pint, giving me a heated glance. “I’m going to take you in the toilet and suck you off. Then I’m going to wank until I come all over you. And then I’m going to treat us to a pub lunch and so many pints that we’ll have to be rolled home.”
“You silver-tongued charmer, you,” I say faintly. But my smile stays in place as he laughs again. We’re obviously both happy to put away intimacy and get back to what we do best. Shagging.
A Few Weeks Later
It’s quiet on the boat, the only sound the lapping of the water outside and Max’s gentle snores.
I roll over and look down at him. He’s tangled in my duvet with his feet sticking out over the end of my bed. He’s patently too tall for my mattress, but I never realised it before because we’ve never actually spent the night in the same bed.
Usually, we’ll lie together for a bit after sex, and then he starts to get fidgety—my cue to get up and leave. It’s one reason I occasionally suggest we hook up on my boat. At least this way he can be the one who has to get dressed and fuck off, and I can ignore the slight dip I get in my stomach lately when I know that he’s waiting for me to go.
But last night he didn’t choose to leave. He passed out after sex as quickly as if I’d coshed him. There are dark circles under his eyes and lines of weariness in his face. My stomach takes another worrisome dip.
I sigh, trying to keep it quiet, so he doesn’t wake up. I’m getting attached to Max, and it’s a fucking disaster in the making. My safeguards aren’t working. Like the idea of meeting here on the boat—it’s backfired spectacularly. He’s absolutely fascinated by boat life, and, as seems to be Max’s raison d’etre, he’s nosed his way into my neighbours’ lives and now knows everyone on a first-name basis.