It’s starting to become the norm for people to see me and automatically look around for Max. What makes it even worse is that I actually want him here all the time and not just for a shag. All of it makes me very uneasy.
I drink in the lines of his body, something I can’t normally do, as he typically deflects any interest on my part. His body is beautiful—long and taut with the hair-roughened chest and muscled arms roped with veins. His genes must be excellent, because he does very little to keep himself this way. Although he is a restless spirit, always on the move and looking for entertainment—so maybe that explains it.
The moonlight turns the scars on his body into dark splodges. I trace them with my eyes, particularly the one on his shoulder which is a knotty, mangled mess. He’s dismissive of his scars, saying they’re a product of roaming the globe in areas where people don’t serve tea and want a cosy chat. However, I know from things he’s let slip that there are at least another two bullet wounds. He was either spectacularly brave or the unluckiest person alive.
His face is peaceful in sleep. Almost innocent-looking. All his energy is gone for now, although he’s probably recharging his tank even as we lie here.
Max moves suddenly, flinging one long arm over his head and turning his head restlessly. He mutters something in another language with a few English words thrown in, and I lean closer to listen. I pull back immediately when his hands clench into fists. “Ivo,” he rasps. “Ivo.”
I wonder what that means. His voice is so intense. Is “Ivo” a place? Some small part of the world he’s dreaming about so fiercely?
My thoughts scatter as I hear the scrape of footsteps on gravel and the sound of my name being called in a very drunken slur.
“Shit,” I mutter, rolling to the edge of the bed.
“Felix!” comes the shout again. “Where the fuck are you, you little shithead?”
My stomach cramps. He’s going to wake the whole row of boats—stupid fucker.
When the shout comes again, Max wakes with a start. There’s no bleariness from sleep or confusion in his eyes. He snaps into comprehension with an eerie swiftness. I suppose it’s a hangover from his journalism days.
“Who’s that?” he asks, his voice hoarse and deep.
I wriggle into my clothes and kick my feet into my trainers. “No one. Don’t worry about it and go back to sleep.”
“Shit, I never meant to fall asleep.” His voice is tinged with crossness.
My familiar stomach dip happens again. Of course he didn’t want to stay the night with me. He’d meant to do the usual shag and go. I force the feelings away. It’s the way we both want it.
I swear under my breath as the voice from outside comes again.
“Felix, you little wanker. Where are you, boy? You’d better answer me now, or you won’t like the fucking consequences, you little faggot.”
“Who the fuck is that?” Max’s voice is tight, his face angry.
“It's just my dad. Leave him to me.” I wave my hand in a calming gesture.
Shock crosses his face as my dad launches into more abuse. Max throws himself off the bed. “No fucking way,” he says through gritted teeth. “I’m not leaving you to deal with that on your own.”
I stare at him. “Why on earth not?”
He gives me a confused glance, but when my father’s voice gets closer, Max’s expression clears and he pulls on his clothes with angry motions. He pushes past me and walks in quick strides toward the door.
“Oh no,” I hiss. “Max, don’t do anything silly. Ouch!” I trip over the eiderdown puddled on the floor and scramble up in a rush.
Max opens the door and says in a very loud, cold voice, “What the fuck is going on out here?”
“Oh no,” I groan again. I follow Max outside, where he and my father immediately become locked in a stare-off.
Max stands with his arms folded over his chest, his stance combative, while my dad is listing and teetering. My father is trying for indignation, but the best he can manage is bleary confusion.
When he sees me, the usual anger crosses his expression. “What the fuck is this, Felix? You’ve got a bodyguard now?”
“Hardly,” I scoff, shivering in the cold early morning air. “You’re not exactly Arnold Schwarzenegger. I think I’ll be safe to take my chances on my own.”
He shakes his head. “Where’s my fucking money, you little shit?” He comes closer, and I step neatly around Max, ignoring his move to stop me. I can smell the alcohol on my dad’s breath. “I want it,” he slurs.
“I haven’t got any money of yours,” I say for the fifty-billionth time. “And you know it.”
“You cheated me,” he says, waving a fist at my face.
Max bats it away quickly. “Don't touch him,” he snarls.
Mortification floods me—I don’t want Max to witness this—but his presence beside me is warm and solid and I’m grateful for it.
My dad steps back and staggers. It’s only my hand on his arm that stops him taking a header off the towpath and into the water. However, as per usual with my father, there’s no gratitude. Instead, he flings my hand off. “Get the fuck off me,” he hisses. “Got it… you have, Felix. Cheated me, you did.”
I shake my head. “You sound like fucking Yoda. Stop it.”
“Is Yoda your sol-solicitor?”
I bite my lip, and Max and I exchange humorous looks before I turn back to my father. “Yes, and he says back off, you must.”
Max tries to stifle his chuckle, but it escapes and angers my father even more.
“Ungrateful little tosser,” he sneers at me, continuing on his tour of the golden oldies. “Never happy with anything. You turned her against me. You did that.”
“No,” I say quietly, aware that people will be awake and listening to this public airing of my dirty laundry. My cheeks burn that Max is listening. “You did that when you fucked off to live with Yvonne and started a whole brand-new, fucked-up offshoot of our family.”
“Your mother would have had me back,” he boasts, widening his stance in a wearyingly manspreading way.
Max immediately moves to stand in front of me. I shoot him a look and step around him to face my dad.
“Yes, she probably would have.”
“You stopped us being happy, Felix.”
I sigh, feeling suddenly sad. “If that’s what you two called happiness, I suppose I did.”
I think of the hours I devoted to convincing my mum that we’d be okay on our own, persuading her that she couldn’t have him back after what he’d done. I’m still not sure what use it was. She died with his name on her lips, and I have to live with that.
I don’t have to live with this shit, however. “You need to go,” I say coldly. “You’ve got no business with me. You told me often enough that I’m no son of yours.”
Max's body tightens, but my dad waves a dismissive hand. “And I still don’t,” he says and then returns with drunken stubbornness to his favourite subject. “That life insurance policy should have been mine, Felix, and you know it. I was her husband until the day she died.”
I nod. “You were,” I say tiredly. “But I was her son, and she left it to me, and it’s all gone on the boat. There is nothing left. Not a penny. So, I’m unsure where you think I’m going to get it. Maybe click my fingers, and it’ll appear out of thin air.”