Tainted Touch Page 10

“Well. There’s my mom–who’s still married to my dad, technically speaking–and my little sister, Bea. She’s six.” He pats his pockets, and brings out a black smartphone. An image of Art and a little girl appears onscreen: she’s blond and impish with pigtails, and they’re sticking their tongues out at the lens with wide, mad eyes. She has her skinny arms thrown around his neck in a gesture of reckless adulation, and a yellow Lego figure teddy bear dangles from one of her hands. “Bea’s why I came back from London, really.”

  “Is she okay?”

  “Yeah, she’s fine…just she’s alone.” He puts the phone away again with a little frown. “I grew up mostly on my own, see. Like, an only child. Dad was so busy and Mom’s got her…issues…it was just fucking lonely. Bea hated it so much every time I went away that I kind of lost the heart to do it anymore. I don’t want her to grow up like I did. Plus Belgrave scouted me out, offered me a position wherever I wanted it. Was kind of a no-brainer.”

  “I thought–didn’t you say you’ve got a brother in London, though?” I ask.

  “I do.” He sighs. “Half-brother. And that’s where it gets complicated.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “It’s also depressing. And I don’t know about you, but I’ve had enough of that for tonight.” Art picks up the wine bottle and refills our glasses. “Now. About this gargoyle fetish…”

  We fill the next ten minutes with the most awful gargoyle innuendo imaginable. When I watched Art boxing that first night–when I christened him Fist Candy and got drunk on his piston shoulder blades–I never thought he’d have such a random sense of humour. Hazel referred to him as a sulky himbo, after all, which doesn’t exactly conjure the image of a guy who likes to laugh. But Art does, and he laughs often; if his fists send blue sparks flying, his laugh is a provocative blast of red.

  The bell rings for last orders, and our bottle is close to empty, the shots long devoured. Above the bar, an old-fashioned clock painted with roman numerals proclaims the time to be quarter to twelve.

  Art gestures to our glasses. “You want another?”

  “I would…but I’m kind of fuzzy.” I can drink with the best of them–hey, I’m friends with Drew–but adrenaline, wine and tequila do not a good cocktail make, and my brain feels bruised with the alcohol. Even my voice drags with the vague echo of a slur.

  Art nods slowly. “It’s kind of gone to my head, too.”

  “Explains that rubbish pun you made about gargoyles and One Direction.”

  “I must be very pissed if One Direction have come up, true.”

  I knock my shoe against the table leg listlessly. “So…you want to, uh, head off?”

  He takes a last gulp of wine. “May as well.”

  I’m still fumbling with my coat when Art rises, and he takes it from me easily, holding it open to help. Blood rushes to my temples. I shrug my shoulders into the coat as I take a step back into the warm, solid column of his chest, and there, I simmer for seconds while my body decides whether he feels safe or not–whether I should be allowed to stay. He pours a hot shock of breath over my cheek, steps aside, lets me through. Then the moment is lost to our empty podium table, where fingerprints ghost along our wine glasses and the papery tendrils of Art’s bottle label cast long shadows on the wood.

  The navy blue night has turned black and inky, and streetlights hang like pale moons, melting paths towards the old town gates. When I step outside, a gust of wind near enough knocks me over and I crash back into Art.

  “Easy,” he mumbles against my hair. The word is made of steam that tickles.

  “Stupid wind!”

  “I know.” He steps beside me and tugs up his hood. “Stupid nature with its stupid…weatherness.”

  “That is poor, poor smithery if I ever heard it,” I scold, still slurring a little. “Also, it’s cold.”

  “I’d give you my coat, like a proper gentlemen.” He grimaces. “But I appear to have no coat.”

  “I noticed. Very brave of you.”

  “I normally jog home with a big bag on my back. Takes five minutes.”

  I bite my lip. “You know, you don’t have to walk me all the way–”

  “Well tough shit, madam. I said I would. So you’re stuck with me.”

  He’s looking at my hands, I realise. Looking at them with that slow crease to his brow and the slight narrowing of his amber eyes, like he might be thinking about reaching for one. To save myself the trauma of debating this any longer, I make balls of my fists and shove them into my coat pockets. There–I’m warmer and free of debilitating conflict.

  “Tell you what, then,” I say as we start to walk, “let’s give the cathedral a miss, at least. I don’t want you to freeze.”

  He gives a single nod. “Another time, maybe.”

  There will be another time, apparently. I half want to whack him for being presumptuous, but my joyful choir of hormones is too busy screeching to let me.

  “I’m trusting you to lead, by the way. I’ve got no idea where I’m going from here,” he adds.

  Is that a hint to take his arm, or something? Because it sure as hell sounds like it. I want to cast my eyes over to see if he’s offering an elbow or whatever, but it involves being very unsubtle and I’m doing enough of that already.

  “We walk back past the gym, and then into the new estate,” I say.

  “Ah. Okay.” He stumbles on the cobbles, catching himself at the last second. “Christ. Are you sure you didn’t spike my drink?”

  I chuckle at him. “And you told me you couldn’t be seen like this. Said it wasn’t professional.”

  “Hush up.” He straightens up and presses his knuckles to my arm in a playful little shove. “And you say I’m a bad influence.”

  For the third time that evening, my hand reflexively shoots out to return his nudge…and he catches it. Oh shit. Oh, oh shit.

  Art folds his thick, cool fingers between my smaller, warmer digits. Our palms mash together with a soft slap; I stand there, pulse throbbing, and just let it happen. This is different to earlier when he pulled me up in the steam room. And it’s different to every brushing touch he’s given me before. Sparks, pressure, skin-on-skin. My heart thumps with panicky dubstep, complaining only because he isn’t closer.

  He smiles very slowly and gives my hand a brief squeeze. “There. Now that’s better.”

  And just like that, he begins to lead me home.

  I was light-headed before we even left the bar, but this, now…ohgodpleasehelpme. Everything about it feels too good to be true.

  Art describes his memories of the town as we walk. He tells me about his sixth form lunchtimes spent in the Vaults pub; he went to the posh all-boys grammar school nearby, which explains his verbose smithery and plethora of ergos and and suchs. We pass Beacon Park, and he recounts the football matches he refereed there–he worked as a kids’ coach during his uni holidays. The word boxing doesn’t pass his lips once but sometimes, his thumb strokes across the back of my hand with the same sharp precision he affords the punch bag. Gentler, of course, but the impact is there all the same.

  I soak him up. I listen. I love the way his voice sounds half-smothered by early spring wind, how his words are blown sideways by breeze and drink; I want to close my eyes and imagine the kisses I might coax from the mouth that speaks them. Because we are nearly at my block, my floor, my door. Nothing about tonight suggests he’ll leave me with a friend-zone peck on the cheek and an empty I’ll call you, no matter what my inner pessimist has to say. If my nerves stretch to hand-holding already, I want to push them further. See how far they’ll go.

  “This is me,” I say, gesturing to the sandy stack of apartments we’re approaching.

  Art gives them a cursory once-over. “Which floor?”

  “Third.”

  “I’ll walk you up.”

  Well. That answers that question.

  I let his hand go to input the door code. Part of me is glad to do this; once we’re in the lift, standing side-by-
side with joined hands would be awkward. Don’t ask me why–it just works better when you’re walking. When we’re inside the elevator and I’ve pushed the correct button, I flatten myself against the wall, my feet a few inches from his; I don’t want to look like I expect anything.

  “It’s nice in here,” he says. His tone is still soft with alcohol, stretching the words so they’re just a smidge longer than before.

  “Yeah. Vicky’s dad sorted the flat out for us. He’s good like that.”

  The lift stops and the doors peel open. I gesture for him to follow me, and we pad out on to the carpet of the hall. My front door is the last one, right at the end of the corridor. With every step toward it, my heart jumps an inch further up my throat until it weighs down the back of my tongue.

  I pat my jeans pockets, feeling about for my key.

  “So this is me,” I say again. I should turn around. It’s polite, for Christ’s sake, and yet I’m suddenly terrified.

  “This is you.”

  He’s close behind me. I don’t know how I know; I just do. And then a pair of strong hands clutch at my waist–firm enough for me to feel their strength, but no harder–and he turns me slowly around.

  I stare at the swirly blue logo on his hoody until it swims in my vision. “Hey.”

  “Hey.” Art nudges my chin up so my gaze meets his.

  This is the first time I’ve had permission to stare right into his eyes. It’s also the first time I’ve noticed the suede green lowlights that splinter his amber irises, or the dark fan of lashes that top them. His pupils stretch and dilate into black buttons; God, that’s sexy. I can feel my lips parting in anticipation of…something. Maybe I just need to suck in an extra breath.

  My hands are flat against the door behind us, and his have slunk lower to cup my hips, where he presses tighter.

  “What?” I croak.

  “Nothing.” A pause. He lowers his eyes, blinks, and pulls a lazy smile. “You’re very pretty. Do you know that?”

  My senses are too overloaded to cope with compliments, and it’s all I can do to change the subject. “You were going to tell me something earlier.”

  “Hmm?”

  “About…you said you liked it when I got embarrassed.”

  “Wow.” He grimaces. “That still doesn’t sound any better, huh? Not even after tequila.”

  “Well?” I stare up at him. “I’m waiting.”

  “She’s waiting. Mmm.”

  He shifts about, tugging my hips a little closer. It gives me the confidence to bring my palms up to his chest. He throws them a brief glance, nods in approval, and then draws up a single fingertip to touch to my cupid’s bow. It makes my pulse jump.

  “This lipstick. It’s a contradiction. It’s a good example of what I mean.” He’s almost whispering now, and his tone is low, husky. “You have this natural, sweet-looking face without a lick of makeup…except for the red. Red does bad, bad things to boys, Cait. I think you know that.”

  I say nothing. I just try to breathe.

  “The way you talk…you know when you’ve said something filthy, but you blush anyway. You’re the dirtiest kind of innocent. And that’s saying something.”

  I don’t know when his mouth got closer; I just know that he’s dropped his head, lined his jaw up with mine. We’re barely a few inches apart and the rest of him presses against me with this delightful, thrilling pressure. Dirtiest kind of innocent. I think I’m actually getting wet. If I were a little less shy, I’d pull his ear down and sigh that I’m no innocent at all. Not where he’s concerned.

  Art brings his finger to my lips again, gives them a single stroke. My tongue–through no command of my own–snakes out and flicks at him, just with the tip. He gives an audible groan. I can smell the wine on his breath, feel the heat of him all along my body as he leans forward. Taste the earthy salt of his skin.

  “That lipstick,” he says thickly. “If it’s okay…I’m going to smudge it now.”

  No words. I don’t even nod for fear of smacking him on the nose. But I stand a little on my tiptoes; I let my eyes fall shut. A soft hmm escapes me.

  This is it. Finally.

  Only he freezes. He doesn’t. Freaking. Move.

  The hands on my hips loosen; his knuckles flex, loosening lazily. His mouth retreats. All at once, he’s like a genie being sucked back into a lamp. My face must reflect my bewilderment because he gives a flat, apologetic little smile and presses his forehead to mine for the briefest moment.

  “I had a good time,” he says, his voice hoarse. “Night, Cait.” Then he pulls away, throws his fists into the pocket at the front of his hoodie, and takes a very blatant step back.

  My heartbeat, still thumping hard at the back of my throat, plummets down to nauseate my belly. Words won’t come; I stifle a choke. This can’t be happening. Everything has gone so well.

  Art stares at me expectantly with a glazed, distant expression.

  “Night,” I blurt. And then I spin on my heel, digging my key into the lock with the same force he throws at the punch bag–but none of the precision. All the while, he just watches. I’m blushing for all the wrong reasons and humiliation attacks my nerves with rusty blades. It feels like hours before the stupid door unlocks and lets me in.

  I throw a quick glance over my shoulder; Art cocks his head slightly and lowers his gaze. Well. Good fucking night to you too. As I hurry inside, I skid a little, my shoe catching something on the floor. The door slams amid my litany of curses, but it’s only when I hear the trample of his footsteps down the hall that I let myself whimper. The skid caught my hip on the side table and already, an ache blossoms in the wake of a mammoth bruise.

  Lights flicker on to reveal an empty, silent flat. Vicky’s still out. Not that my misery craves company. Can a bad date send you into shock? Because that’s right where I am, my body a harvest of cool shivers and my stomach sour with alcohol and shame. He asked me for a drink; he spent all the damn time flirting with me; he came on to me, just outside my door. And then someone pressed his rewind button and he switched off, short-circuited. What the hell? I was stupid to believe he could be interested–that much is clear–but I never thought his sense of humour extended to cruelty. Christ. I must have a sign on my forehead that reads ‘will take your shit for compliments.’

  Something on the floor catches my eye. Through the bloated lens of my tears, it looks misshapen…but it seems that I skidded on an envelope which must’ve been shoved under the door. I clasp my sore hip with one hand and bend to pick up the envelope with the other, sniffling.

  Cait, it reads in blunt and familiar capitals, trembling in my palm. I do not want to open this. I know exactly who it’s from. But hey, tonight’s fast becoming the last encore for Cirque du Crap, so what am I waiting for? I peel the envelope open and tease out the photograph.

  It was taken maybe three years ago. Seventeen-year-old Dominic and I sit on the school playing field in summer; his face is rounder and younger, his skin slightly burned in the sunshine. I lean against his shoulder with a dopey smile on my face, substantially chubbier than I am now. A daisy chain loops around my wrist, the crushed stalks pulpy green, and he’s teasing it upward with his index finger in a lazy gesture of ownership. This particular photo must’ve been chosen on purpose.

  We’d been together just months, and things were sweet. Normal. I’d yet to become the empty girl who considered herself undeserving of a real relationship, the one who sobbed herself to sleep beside him because she felt like the only teenager in the world who had to coerce her boyfriend into sex. He’d given himself so easily, in the beginning…but then he faded away like the drained hue of this photo. Only a bad-tempered echo of a boy remained, one I could never quite reach. Tonight, Art went from 3D to echo in the space of about five seconds.

  Every boy I touch turns to stone.

  A fat tear bursts free on my cheek and wobbles down to dampen my collar. I hold the photo up to the light, blinking furiously, when it becomes clear somet
hing’s written on the back.

  I miss you, he’s scrawled in thick black marker pen. Love Dom. Even in his sad attempt at reconciliation, Dominic is just made of paper. No flesh for Cait.

  The picture feathers its way to the floor. A sob curdles in the back of my throat, and then I race to the bathroom to perform the arduous task of chucking my guts up.

  Chapter Ten

  Sleep hangs around my waist like a blanket, tossed aside too much to be of comfort. I’d blame a hangover, but everything I drank last night is languishing somewhere in the fine sewers of Foxfield. Instead my sheets are soiled with the chilled sweat of misery and my hip throbs against the coils of my mattress.

  Oh, and Vicky’s alarm is going off. Magnificent. I really don’t want to rehash my date to her, not at this God forsaken time of the morning–so I gather an armful of towels and toiletries, and lock myself in the bathroom for an extended purge.

  You can pretend you’re not crying in the shower. You tell yourself it’s just steam in your eyes, and that tears are only water, no matter where they come from or where they fall. Minutes go uncounted, my skin flushes in blossoming gardens of red; I don’t care. Let it hurt. The distraction is more than welcome. I’d rather be a masochist than a victim, and I’m ninety-nine percent sure they’re not the same thing.

  Wrapped in a thick white bathrobe, I languish in the tangled pit of my bed and flick through emails and updates on my phone. It appears Drew played an awful lot of Candy Crush last night–his page is a clusterfuck of profane updates. If this is what being sober does to him, maybe he should just give in and go drinking. Then I spot the shoes I kicked off last night, and the heap of my jeans and black jumper–clothes now soaked in the scent of Art. I’m embarrassed by the mere sight of them. Of course it wasn’t going to work out. Look at him, and look at…well. Me. Hell–next time Drew goes drinking, I am right there with him. Plate Frisbee and all.

  The Waves catches my eye from its position on the windowsill. I’d hidden it in a stack of similarly thick paperbacks–all gifts from Mills–and a fat Pink Dragonfruit candle sits atop the pile, its glass rim grey with soot. I reach out for the book, drag my thumb across the embossed blue title. Looks like I’m reading about the lighthouse lady.