Tainted Touch Page 19

  “So…there’s going to be coffee?”

  “There will be much caffeine. And pastries. But none for Cait until she gets her arse out of bed. I put towels in the bathroom, ‘kay?”

  I swallow dry morning air. “Is that a hint?”

  He hoots with laughter. “No. Unless you’re into that kind of thing, of course.”

  “There’s a fetish for hints…?”

  “There’s a fetish for being told what to do, young grasshopper. Evidently not your thing.” He sighs. “Which is a shame. That’s always a fun one.”

  I peel myself from the sheets. “Even at eight o’clock in the morning?”

  “A bit hungover, eh?” His mouth melts into a mischievous grin. “Did someone sneak out after bedtime to wish Artemis a good night?”

  Heat pools in the apples of my cheeks. “Maybe,” I mumble.

  “I hope you cleaned up after yourselves.”

  “It wasn’t like that,” I say quickly. “I mean, I wouldn’t–”

  He wags a finger in mock disapproval. “Say no more. I know him well enough to guess that he wouldn’t, either.”

  I think we’re talking about the idea of Art fucking me in the kitchen while Aidan sleeps a few feet away. But it’s early and my head hurts and the sun is far too bright for March, so I can’t actually be sure.

  After a few steadying breaths, I grab my shower bag and some clean clothes, and pull the door open.

  “Cait?”

  I glace back to Aidan, who looks comically tall spread over the bed.

  “Yeah?”

  “My brother’s very picky. Probably too picky, if you ask me, but hey ho. You can lead a horse to a stable full of whores, but…” He rolls his eyes. “What I’m trying to say–in my usual tactless fashion–is that I’m glad he’s finally picked someone. He picked right.”

  “Oh.” What else is there to say to that?

  “And while we’re in Aid’s Comfort Corner: he’s a stubborn sod. Is constantly trying, and failing, to be a control freak, for whatever god awful reason. I blame Dad, because it’s easy.” He gives a straight-faced shrug. “And because the bastard deserves it, but that’s a story that nobody wants to hear, ever. Basically…be patient with Artemis. Okay?”

  I’m clutching my bag so hard, my fingers are going numb. “Okay. And, uh, thank you. For sharing that.”

  “I do weddings and bar mitzvahs.”

  At that, I can’t suppress a giggle. “You mean–oh. Wait. You don’t mean your other job.”

  Aidan laughs again. “I do not mean that. Although, this one time–”

  “I’m going to get a shower.” There are some things I don’t need to know about Art’s brother.

  Twenty minutes later, I emerge to the sweet, earthy stench of good coffee. Several paper buckets of it sit dotted across the coffee table, along with a plate full of pastries and a stack of packaged fruit salads.

  “Cait,” Mills says in her usual wry fashion, gesturing for me to sit beside her. “Come on, before it gets cold.”

  Art cocks his head toward me as I sit opposite. Half his mouth curves up into a smile. “Morning.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Officially so, since the coffee arrived,” Aidan adds. “Feast, my bitches.”

  Oh, and I do. Last night’s little episode has left my stomach gurgling with hunger, and the sight of rich, flaky pastries only makes it worse. I choose an apple slice pitted with flaked almonds, and tear it into bite-sized pieces before digging in. The coffee is strong and hot still, its slight bitterness a welcome relief.

  A bit of me would like to say that Art and I watch each other as we lick our fingers, suck the syrup from our own skin–but we don’t. I’m so conscious of eating like a pig that I barely glance at him. When Mills hands around the fruit salads, I tear into mine with enforced grace, spearing lumps of supple melon and mango one at a time.

  Watching Aidan eat below a picture of his naked self is disquieting. Weird. It looks like he fell out of the photograph, a creature from another place. I’ve never knowingly met an escort before–it is another place, another world. One I’m not sure what to make of…but I will reserve judgement, because I know what loneliness does. Can do. Have run from the rot of it.

  I must’ve been staring at Aidan because suddenly Art’s eyes are on us, curious amber milk swishing about. He knows, I think. And the little nod he offers is comfort enough.

  The Goodbye is inevitable, as is the awkwardness it involves. While Art takes our bags down to the car, Aidan wraps me and Mills into a big bear hug, crushing us all together. I talk myself through the contact, try to find the counsel in touch. It’s just a body, just pressure. It is born of good intent.

  “I feel like we’re in a place where this is okay,” he booms, squeezing harder. “This is okay, right?”

  “Right,” Mills squeaks. She’s trying to look critical, but her eyes say otherwise.

  “Breathing’s nice sometimes,” I croak. “Just FYI.”

  Aidan tuts. “Also a fetish.”

  “You think everything’s a fetish,” Mills scolds.

  “But it is.”

  “I’m so interviewing you.” She heaves a sigh of relief as he finally lets us go. “Have you got a card or something?”

  “Why yes, yes I have.” He pats his pockets, brings out a wallet, and slips a cream card with a metallic blue font into her palm. “Oh, and I don’t do mates’ rates. Also FYI.”

  I swear she flushes, just a little. “Mom’ll be so disappointed.”

  “Maybe I’ll make the exception, then. I love a good MILF.”

  “I’m not sure she’s your type,” I say.

  “Ooh.” Mills studies the card, chewing her cheek in thought. “The Ladarna Entertainment Agency. Nice.”

  For a second, I imagine Mills going home to Mom and explaining she’s been to London to stay with two strange guys, one of whom is a prostitute. You’d see the steam from her ears blasting all the way to Foxfield. We may be grown women, as Mills (and Beyoncé) say, but we’re still her babies. Mills thinks Mom will end up in a lesbian commune; Mom has yet to figure out that this isn’t an insult.

  Art appears in the doorway, and walks to Aidan with a palm held high.

  “Slinky five,” Aidan chirps, slapping his hand to Art’s. “Don’t leave it too long, yeah?”

  “I’ll be back soon enough,” Art says.

  “Too right, you will. I’ve missed your cooking. And your lovely company, obviously.”

  Art chuckles. “Obviously. Right…” He peers around at me and Mills. “Come on then, ladies. Best get on the road.”

  Aidan slaps a hand to his forehead, Juliet style. “The time of Artemis and the womenfolk is over,” he laments. “The time of being the director’s bitch…approaches.”

  I frown in sympathy. “Work, huh?”

  “Two shows today. Monday is my weekend.”

  “Well good luck. I’m sure you’ll be awesome.”

  “Look at me.” He flexes an admittedly buff bicep. “How could I not be awesome?”

  Mills clucks her tongue at him. “What if you run out of Creme de la Mer?”

  “We do not speak of such things.”

  “Didn’t mean to traumatise you. Apologies.”

  Then he grabs her for another hug, dropping his voice to murmur, “Stay away from those lighthouses, yeah? Sneaky little bastards.”

  The crease between her eyebrows flashes and falters. She gives a silent nod.

  With that, we’re off down to the car, leaving Aidan to wave at the top of the staircase. I follow Art, study the lines of his body as he swaggers toward the passenger doors and holds them open for me and Mills in turn. I drink in the soft stretch of his mouth, the mouth that kissed me just nine hours ago. And I smile.

  Farewell, London. You gave me All The Things.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Back on the road, Mills sits up front with Art and they plug his iPod into the speakers, discussing the bands as the songs pour throu
gh. I drowse behind them, content to let last night’s kisses slosh about in my fizzy brain. They graze my lips in ghost form. Suck at the tip of my tongue. I glimpse Art in the mirror and remember the taste of him, a tart edge of masculinity beneath water and mint.

  Shops and trees and clumps of pedestrians roll past the window, and the upcoming day rolls through my head. I count the chances Art and I will have to be alone: after we drop Mills off. When he takes me home. After work. My body doesn’t care that I’m knackered; all it wants is the weight of him pressing me up against a counter, for our chemistry to get its teeth in and chew bloody holes to lubricate the mess of us.

  On the plus side, when we pull up outside the old house, Mom’s car is conspicuously absent. She’s probably at some fundraising fayre for whales with herpes. (I love animals as much as the next person, but I’m no campaigner. There’s a line).

  Mills hops out, and I follow her up the path while Art waits in the car.

  “Cheers for last night,” she says, keys in hand.

  “Cheers for coming. I know it might have been weird.”

  She squints into the sunshine, dark hair dancing around her face in the breeze. “It was a bit weird. Just in a good way.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “Silver linings, mmm?”

  “Mmm.” She nods once toward Art. “He’s really nice, Cait.”

  “You think?”

  “Yeah. Easy to talk to.” She gives a little snort. “He’s no Dominic, that’s for sure.”

  I flinch–I’d forgotten, for one blissful evening, that he still loitered in the shadows. “I freaking hope not.”

  “Can’t really see him doing some pansy sociology degree, can you?”

  I crack a smile at that. “This is true. Hey. Are you….are you okay, Mills? After last night?”

  “Yeah.” Her gaze drops to the floor. “I know you’re all concerned and big-sisterly and everything, but honestly. I’ll cope.”

  “Because if you change your mind about Cambridge, or law, or even uni–you know I won’t think less of you. It’s your life. Do whatever you want with it.”

  “I know what I want,” she mumbles. “I’m just not sure if it wants me.”

  We don’t hug; it’s not our thing. As she disappears through the front door, I can’t deny the unease that grips me: Mills is not coping, and all I can do is be there. And nag. My steps back to the car are slow-motion, and I lose myself in cracks along the pavement, weeds that siphon through to steal dregs of sunlight. The universe gives with one hand and slaps us across the face with the other.

  Every crunch of gravel brings me closer to Art. He leans across to open the passenger door, and I slip into Mills’ warmed seat with a soft thump of leather.

  “Hey.” That smooth, deep, lovely voice. It balms everything. “Everything okay?”

  I shake my head. “She isn’t.”

  “I’m sorry, Cait.” He reaches over, his palm skimming my thigh until it comes to rest at the top. He squeezes. “I think it did her good, coming out for the night.”

  “Yeah. And she at least talked to me…a bit.”

  “I don’t like it when you’re sad.”

  I blink up at him, trying to usher the water from my eyes. Concern makes his cheekbones seem higher, his jaw squared. Without thinking, I put my hand over his and squeeze back.

  “Thank you,” I say softly.

  “Not a problem.” He sighs before dragging his hand back to the steering wheel. “Best get back if we want to be at work on time, I suppose.”

  “Is there another option?”

  “We could drive off somewhere. Be random. I’d say feel the wind in our hair, but…” He glances up at the car’s ceiling. “Roof would get in the way.”

  “Stupid roof.”

  “I know. What the fuck was I thinking?”

  “I suspect you were thinking about English weather,” I say, trying not to laugh.

  “Aha. Now that’s better.” He brushes a knuckle to my smile before the engine hums to life, and it’s all I can do to not lick him again. Which is fast becoming the story of my life.

  The motorway stretches ahead of us, tapering into the distance in wide ribbons of cars. Art lets me skip through the iPod to songs I like; he has the whole Max Collins album, which makes for a beautiful driving soundtrack–shivering guitar strings, clever puns and all. One particular song, Perfect Crime, is bittersweet in its relevance; acoustic and upbeat, the lyrics swing between affection and melancholy. I’m reminded of Mills and her cynical smiles.

  “So.” I turn to Art. “Can I ask what a slinky five is?”

  “Oh, you heard that?”

  “Aidan’s kind of loud.”

  “He is, huh.” He grins fondly. “Not long after I went to stay with him, we had this very, very drunk night after he’d been to some corporate event with one of his clients. They give out goody bags with loads of promotional crap, and one bag had a couple of slinkies. So picture this: it’s three in the morning and pissing with rain, and we’re out there on his stairs, playing slinky wars. His red one against my blue one. We were only in tshirts. God knows what we must’ve looked like.”

  I slap a hand over my mouth to stem unladylike sniggers. “Weren’t you freezing cold?”

  “Probably. But we did a lot of really bad victory dancing, so that kept us warm.” He wriggles in his chair, almost shimmies–which only makes me laugh harder. “It was slinky everything. Drinking our slinky beers, doing our slinky dances, doing slow-mo slinky fives.”

  “You pair of complete twats, Art.”

  “I’m sorry–did you just refer to me as a twat?”

  “I believe I did.” My eyes drift from the road to his surprised face. So cute. “Do you have a problem with that, Mr Lyons?”

  He shrugs. “Oh no,” he says casually. “I’m assuming you don’t either. You know, with your boyfriend being a twat and all.”

  The car falls quiet; acoustic guitar plays in the background, but the atmosphere is yanked tight. I mesh my fingers together, concentrate on the writhing knot it forms. When I dare to glance at Art, his cheeks are streaked with a pink flush and his eyelids are heavy. Truth be told, he looks kind of aroused.

  “That was too much, huh?” he asks.

  “No. I…”

  “It slipped out. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry.” I swallow hard. Let the confidence brew. And then I reach over and rub his thigh, just like he did to me. He’s solid and tight beneath my touch. “We’re just…we’re seeing where this goes, right?”

  He strokes a strong thumb over the back of my hand. “I know what I want, Cait.”

  Nervous sweat blooms in my palms. I focus on his thumb, the way it almost tickles. And what do you want, exactly? But it sounds stupid, even silently.

  “Just, while we’re working it out,” he goes on, “I want to know you’re only working things out with me.”

  I don’t even have to think. “There’s only you.”

  “Good.” He gives my hand another squeeze. “Because for me, there’s only you.”

  Fist Candy wants to be my boyfriend. I want to paint those words across the earth in maple syrup, roll around in them, get good and sticky. I want to hear them over and over until they merge into an unintelligible mess. I want to go to bed with him, wake up beside him, tell him about my troubles and soak up all of his.

  I want to belong to Art, for him to belong to me. And I think that’s starting. These are the opening credits, this is the theme tune, and neither is tainted by an unwelcome touch.

  Just after eleven, we drive into Foxfield. The sun is dull here, and opaque shadows lie across the outskirts of the town gate. Fog clings to ribbons that lace about overhead.

  Art carries my bag up to the third floor of my building, his free hand clutching mine. As we approach my door at the end of the corridor, a familiar thrum kicks in at the back of my throat. God, please don’t let him change his mind again in this fated spot. I’m still shivering from the surprise of h
is possessive little confession in the car.

  I’m on the cusp of asking him in when he clutches my waist, pulls me closer. We step back a few paces, hit my door; then my arms are around his neck, his mouth drops toward mine, and darkness settles in the flickering otherworld of his kiss. Not a second is wasted–each one is stuffed with the feel of his hard shoulders, the pull of his arms, the taste of coffee on his curious tongue. I can smell the heat on him.

  “I need to go get ready for work.” A reluctant staccato shapes his voice. “But I don’t want to.”

  “Me too, I suppose.”

  His next kiss is lazy and playful. He sucks my smiling bottom lip, growls when I yelp at him.

  “Tonight, I’m going to be knackered,” he admits. “But tomorrow, after work. Can I take you out?”

  “Will you bring a slinky?” I tease.

  He runs the tip of his tongue along a tendon of my neck. “That can be arranged.”

  We’re not just kissing. This is engrossed, intimate foreplay, and it’s happening up against my front door. I ache to invite him in but even if he said yes, we’d be rushed. I don’t want that. And Art seems to have his plans for things…if we get as far as the bedroom, will he have them for that, too? Or will they go out the window as soon as he wants me, like last night?

  Also: I must not binge. It leads to vomiting, which takes this metaphor to a place I’d rather not go.

  “I need you to be the strong one here,” he mumbles into my hair. “Get inside already, or we’ll be here all day.”

  “Doesn’t sound so bad to me.”

  “No, I know. But I have these things called clients, and they get pissed when I don’t turn up.”

  I shift my hips slightly against the erection bulging through his jeans. Just the feel of him makes me blush. “You probably can’t treat them in this state.”

  “Which is why I’m going to see my mother,” he grunts. “She’ll insult me in her usual passive aggressive manner. It’s like having my cock sawed off with a rusty spoon. And then just to be sure, I’ll stay under a cold shower until I’ve sung Bea half the Frozen soundtrack.”

  I cringe. “She sits in on your showers, Art…?”