Tainted Touch Read online

  Silence. His hands continue their work, and I breathe along with them, trying to absorb his words and their meaning. Frankly, I’m not sure if he’s telling me he still likes me, or he’s changed his mind and is apologising for seeming obtuse. Then he brings his thumb out, grazes it down the valley of my spine, working it outward to the taut mesh of muscle either side. Pleasure bleeds into the veins there, catches in my throat; I bite my tongue but a faint mew slips out anyway. I sound as if he’s touched me another way–I know this. I sound as if he just entered me and God, I’ve never blushed so hard in my life.

  “Sorry,” I say hurriedly, pressing my face hard into my dark cage of arms. “Sorry, sorry.”

  He chuckles. “That happens more than you might think.”

  I groan, still mortified.

  “Felt good, huh?” He does it again–a brief flush of thumb along my spine, sweeping out to press harder, at the top of my buttocks this time. “You have the beginning of the sciatic nerve here,” he says softly. “It’ll play up when you get a back injury, a lot of the time. Gets aggravated if you sleep awkwardly or your posture is off.” He brings his other hand to the same spot, works his thumbs in tandem.

  Acidic release stains the area, spilling in blurry circles. When he helped me with the sit-ups, I thought I’d felt how strong he was; not so. These poised, precise movements betray the depth of his understanding. Here is a boy who knows how to touch–so much so that people pay him to do it–and his hands are on me. They play over my back effortlessly, ushering flinches and hitched little inhalations of relief.

  “You didn’t say anything about Saturday,” he says after a minute, or maybe two. In touch time, hours have echoed through my body.

  “Tell me what you’d like me to say,” I manage.

  “That we’re cool.”

  I press my lips together. Re-examine the shape of them, just to buy myself some time. “We’re cool.”

  “And I’ll give you another chance, Art, because I’m nice like that,” he says.

  “And I’ll–wait. What?” I turn my head to look at him. He stares back, his eyes glazed with concentration.

  “Go on,” he says, amused. “I’m waiting.”

  “What do you mean…another chance?” Then I slam my face back down so I don’t have to see him when he laughs, when he tells me that was just teasing. Christ, Cait. Stop indulging yourself in this bile-tastic idea that he might be interested.

  “You know how I said my brother lives in London?”

  “Mmm.”

  “He’s a dancer, as it happens. He’s in WICKED at the moment and he’s given me some tickets. Want to come?”

  “With you?” I croak. “To London?”

  “We’d stay at his flat. He’s good company, I promise.”

  He appears to be asking me to go away with him, like one of those awesome date trip things I always fantasised about in my early teens. The correct term, I believe, is ‘whisked off.’ He whisked me off to Paris, yah, and that was where he proposed. It was just darling.

  “When were you thinking of?” I ask as he returns to the palm-pressing. It’s firmer now, almost more of a scooping motion. It is also more blissful than a bucket of wine.

  “Friday. I get off early. You don’t work then, right?”

  “No, but…Friday. I’m really sorry, Art, but my sister’s coming to visit, and she’s kind of having a crap time. It’d be rough of me to cancel.”

  A pause. “Millie, right?”

  “Uhuh.”

  “So bring her with you,” he says, as if it’s a completely normal thing to suggest. “Change of scenery might be good for her, and there’ll be room. It’ll even us out to a foursome, too.”

  “I’d–I’d have to ask her.”

  “But if she says yes, you’ll come?”

  “I’ll come. Yeah.” I clutch the chair just a little tighter. How, exactly, will I explain this to Mills? Please come to London with these strangers so your big sister can get laid?

  “Good.” He puts both palms flat on the affected muscle of my back once more and leans into them, pushing calm heat. “I’d like for you to meet him. And I’d like to meet her.”

  This, from the boy who was apparently too nervous to kiss me? Maybe that certificate in his portfolio with the hippy name was just Indian for qualified clusterfuck. Still, I quake beneath the slow burn of his skin on mine, the ripples of pleasure that permeate each stroke. If I don’t shift my focus again, I’ll make more sex noises and then die of humiliation.

  “You said stuff with your brother was complicated,” I prompt.

  “I did. Huh.” Art sits back, dragging his fingers around the curve of my hips before resting them very lightly on the outside of my clothed thighs. I get the feeling that move isn’t part of his usual repertoire; he stays too long in the sweep of it. Luxuriates. “I should explain that.”

  “Please do.”

  “You didn’t go off and Google my dad, did you?” He says this almost hopefully, like it’d save him some trouble.

  “Unfortunately not.”

  “Ah. Right. Well I’ll give you the short version, for the time being.” He takes a deep breath before drawing the drape back over my shoulders. “I didn’t actually know I had a brother until I was about sixteen, and I only found out because the papers were suddenly all over it. Dad had an affair with the woman who cleaned his house in London, see, and Aidan–that’s his name–was born around the time my parents got married. All this came out when Dad was investigated for some expenses claims and somebody wanted to shit on him from a nice height. So…that was weird.”

  “Oh God. I’m sorry.”

  “No, it’s okay. Remember how I said I was lonely, growing up? I was really pleased, in this strange way. Like I knew I wasn’t alone. But I was angry as well, even angrier than about dad’s affair. I hated that they’d kept Aidan a secret. When I mentioned looking him up, Dad went ballistic at me and banned me from ever contacting him. So I didn’t, for a while. And Mom…well.” He sighs. “Mom decided it’d be a good idea to have Bea, so I wasn’t alone anymore.”

  A great chunk of Art’s circumstances suddenly makes sense. No wonder he feels responsible for his sister. The more he talks about loneliness, the more I think about Grace, The Waves, and the spider, and how being alone can make you do strange things–like make a web to catch someone, only to ingest them with your big drooly fangs. Ahem.

  “I left it all alone. Went off to uni. I was still angry but I dealt with it for as long as I could. And then after I dropped out, after India, I just thought–fuck it. I found Aidan’s email address, sent him this note. Must’ve been nuts for him, getting that, but he was great. I went to see him. And then basically, I didn’t come home again properly until I got this job.”

  “Wow.” I go to turn to him, but remember that I’m topless just in time. Oops. “What does your dad think about it all now?”

  Art snorts. “He doesn’t know.”

  “He doesn’t know you went to London…?”

  “Oh, he knows that part. Just not that me and Aidan are in contact. I mean, maybe he suspects, I dunno.” He shrugs. “Mom does, I think. But nobody’s said anything and I don’t plan on bringing it up. It’d be carnage.”

  I was still angry. All at once, I see his fists fly into the swinging punch bag, cycling back and forth as he grunts. Somehow, I don’t think the anger has left him at all. Funny how I’m the one half naked, but he’s the one who’s exposed here–he offers the edge of himself to me, time and time again, as if to warn that I might be cut open.

  “I know it’s all a bit grim and messed up,” he says apologetically, “but seriously, Aidan’s cool. You’ll like him.”

  “You think he’ll like me?” I ask before I can help it, and then shrink back into the dark safety of the chair.

  Art gives me one of his lingering nudges. “I do. Yeah.” Then he backs up, the stool squeaking along the wooden floor. “I’ll wait outside while you get dressed, okay?”

>   “‘Kay.”

  “Take your time.” His mouth softens as he pulls the door open, eyes alight with the tease. “You look awfully relaxed.”

  I tut at him. “Isn’t that the idea? Also…pills.”

  “Of course. It’s the drugs.”

  “Definitely not your clever hands.” I’m slurring. How classy of me.

  “Clever, huh?” He holds them up. “Thank you, God, for such useful appendages.”

  “Don’t force me to make a pun about useful appendages,” I mutter.

  Now his grin cracks, soaking up to crinkle at the corners of his eyes. “It’d be highly inappropriate for you to smith about my–”

  “Shh! I meant your hands. Obviously.”

  “Obviously.” Art folds his arms, leans back against the open door. “I’ll be outside when you’re ready, Cait.”

  The door closes with a demure click, and I’m left to mourn the feathery ghosts of his fingers.

  Chapter Thirteen

  When I get back, Vicky’s lounging on the sofa in a pink leopard-print onesie. Script pages litter her lap, lie splayed across the floor like stretched dominoes. The remains of an M&S salad bowl sit beside a half-drunk bottle of water.

  “Boo,” she says, not looking up from her script.

  “Learning your lines?”

  “Again. Keep screwing up.” She takes a few pages in her fist and waves them at me. “I’ve got a week to make Catherine my bitch. C’est une grande probleme.”

  “Christ. That’s gone fast.” Vicky’s been rehearsing her role in A View From the Bridge for what feels like months. Maybe it is months. Should probably pay a bit more attention.

  “Tell me about it. And like half my mark for this year’s riding on it, which doesn’t bloody help. I’m not used to these kinds of scenes…they run and run, all this quickfire dialogue.” She gives a melodramatic sigh, complete with shoulder slump. “Bring back Shakespeare. It’s easier to remember.”

  I dump my shopping bags–including my very gorgeous new outfit–in the kitchen, and come to sit beside her. “I’m making Tiramisu.”

  “Is that what the doctor prescribed?”

  “Nope.” I’m not grinning. Of course not. My jaw just aches a bit and the apples of my cheeks feel strained.

  Vicky eyes me with suspicion. “Cait. What the fuck is wrong with your face?”

  “Nothing.” I stare at her empty salad bowl, trying to look casual. Then I peel my phone from my pocket and raise it slowly. “Art just added me on Facebook.”

  She’s still for a second. The pages of her script shiver down to the floor with a jerk, and she leaps toward the kitchen. “Okay, okay. Hang on–I’ll get the popcorn. You get your laptop. I’m breaking to stalk through all his photos with you at once.”

  “Vicky!” I swipe at her sleeve feebly as she passes. “I’m trying not to be that neurotic–”

  “Er, have you looked in the mirror? You’re gaping like the Joker. I don’t know what you’re on, but I demand that you share it. Good friends share.”

  “He gave me a massage,” I blurt. “And he asked me to go to London.”

  She pauses in front of the Cupboard of Shame, and makes a slow, calculated turn. The kind we practise when drunk and watching America’s Next Top Model. “Did you actually injure yourself just so he’d have to grope you?”

  “Of course I didn’t.” But now I feel extra sheepish, because it sure looks like I did. “Technically, I was thinking about punching Dominic when I did it. So it’s his fault. He made Art grope me.”

  “That makes no sense. But I like it. Tell me about this London thing.” She yanks a packet of microwave popcorn from the cupboard and taps the time in before pressing Start. “I blame you for making me crave this, by the way.”

  “He’s got this brother in London,” I say over the hum of the microwave. “He’s a dancer in WICKED–”

  “Seriously? Oh my God.”

  “Yep. And he wants us to go and stay with him, see the show and stuff. On Friday.”

  She frowns. “Isn’t that when Mills is coming?”

  “Yeah. Um. He wants me to ask Mills to come, as well.”

  Vicky raises one pale eyebrow at me. “I don’t know whether that’s really sweet, or just kind of strange. I want to say desperate, actually, but he’s too hot to be desperate.”

  I snort at her. “I suspect our logic is flawed.”

  She waves a dismissive hand as the microwave beeps. “Has it failed us yet?”

  Yeah, I’m not going to dignify that with an answer. “He apologised for Saturday, too. Said he was worried of doing it wrong because he got too drunk.”

  “Now that is sweet.” She tugs the popcorn bag out, tosses it around in her hands as it cools. “Is the brother as hot as him? And is he single?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Well load up frickin’ Facebook then, and we’ll stalk the crap out of him.”

  “Eh…I dunno, Vick.” I shift about uncomfortably, still slightly dizzy from both the massage and the drugs. When I imagined being pummelled by my Fist Candy, I never guessed it would be so…gentle.

  “But I made popcorn. And it’s not even the Pound Shop kind.”

  “I haven’t even looked at his profile yet. There might not be anything on it.” Or maybe it’ll be splattered with photos and messages from girls who aren’t Formerly Fat, none of which I can cope with just yet. Much better to make a tiramisu, put my face in it, and wait for him to call later. Because he promised to. He wants to make plans when I’ve talked to Mills.

  “You’re back to looking psychotic,” Vicky says in slight disgust. “Yesterday, you hated his guts. Remember?”

  “I remember,” I mumble.

  “But it’s different now because he put those lovely, healing hands on you…?”

  My sheepish smile returns. “Something like that?”

  “I’ll be quiet now. I’m just jealous. Sorry.” She walks back to the sofa with heavy steps, popcorn bag in hand. “I’m glad you got the nerve up to talk to him, anyway.”

  I give her one of my nudge-in-place-of-a-hugs. “You helped with that, y’know.”

  “Because I’m awesome.”

  “Heh. You sound like Rich,” I tease.

  “Would Rich approve of this?” The popcorn bag spills with a rough tear, and Vicky leans back to pour it into her open mouth. Kernels skitter about like confetti, tumbling down her chin and chest. “Om nom nom.”

  “He’d want to tidy it up immediately. But there’s quite a lot of it in your cleavage, and he’d have fun with that,” I laugh.

  “If he can’t handle me at my worst,” she says through a mouthful, “then he definitely doesn’t deserve me at my best. Or my hungriest.”

  “Smith hard, Marilyn.”

  She clutches the popcorn bag aloft, like an Oscar. “I’d like to thank the Academy.” Then she starts pulling scrunched yellow kernels from between her boobs. “Would it be wrong to eat these? It would, wouldn’t it? Ugh.” She tosses them into her salad bowl with a forlorn little sigh.

  “I’m gonna go call Mills,” I announce, getting to my feet. Since the massage, my back feels…looser. It’s easier to move. “Need to convince her to come to London.”

  “If she won’t, I’ll come,” Vicky calls after me. “I’ll save you some popcorn!”

  ***

  Just before I call Mills, I notice it’s not even four p.m. yet–she’ll still be at college. So I take the opportunity to get my daily fix of The Waves. (I say “fix”; the book itself is more depressing than addictive, but I always seem to feel better for doing something I know Mills would approve of. Also, Grace makes me feel a little more normal, what with her being batshit insane).

  The lighthouse windowsills are littered with potted plants of various kinds. In the definitely-horrible dystopian future, the sun doesn’t provide as much light as it used to: a smudge of yellow shivered behind the fog, tainting windows and lungs, smothering greenery. Each day she watched the sapling t
wist toward first light and gasp for its silver breath. Grace can’t stare at the plants for too long because, like seagulls and spiders and probably three cheese pizzas, they remind her too much of exes. Lovers are like flowers, she thought. Feed them your tears and watch them grow into strange shapes.

  Things I have learned from The Waves so far: there is nothing good left in the world, no matter how hard you look at it. Even with the purest things, the fog just gets in the way, and everything around you dies a slow death while you languish in your own mistakes–Christ, Mills. No wonder you’re depressed.

  Speaking of which…

  “Cait,” she deadpans down the phone.

  “Mills.”

  “Hang on a sec–I’m still in the library.” Clothes rustle, books shuffle. Footsteps fall low and heavy before a blast of wind announces her exit. “We still all set for Friday?”

  “Yeah. Um. About that. Slight change of plan. Possibly.”

  “How so?”

  “How do you fancy a bit of a road trip instead? Like…London? I have these friends, and they’ve asked if we want to go.”

  Mills clears her throat. “Friends…?”

  “A guy,” I croak. “This guy. And his brother. Look, I know–”

  “Wait a sec.” Her tone rockets with delight. “Does my big sister have a boyfriend?”

  “She has a date. Kind of. And she normally wouldn’t ask you to give up our night, but he’s got tickets for this musical and everything, and it sounds kind of cool, so…you want to come?” I bite down on every word.

  “Sounds nice. But expensive.”

  “We can stay at his brother’s flat, apparently. There’s a room for us. And Art’s promised to cook.”

  “Oh, Cait.” She tuts. “Mom would not like this at all.”

  I sit up straighter on the bed. “Don’t tell her. She’ll have a go at me for being irresponsible and vulnerable to the attentions of silly boys, or whatever crap she’s currently calling it.”

  “Is he a nice silly boy?” Mills’ voice has a soft edge of curiosity.

  “Really nice.” I wince, clutching the phone a little tighter. “And his brother sounds nice as well–if a bit old for you, so it’s probably not like that–”