Tainted Touch Page 9

  With veins full of adrenaline and bravery, I start to talk.

  “So…am I allowed to ask what you were doing in London?”

  He blinks into the wind. “Nope. You’ll speak when spoken to.”

  I go to open my mouth, then draw a finger up to mime zipping it, my brows raised high. I can feel him eyeing the red lipstick.

  “That’s the spirit.” His tongue emerges, nudging at his bottom lip. “You just sit tight and look pretty. I’ll go on about myself for the next few hours and you can nod and smile as if it’s all incredibly interesting.”

  I give an obedient and exaggerated nod.

  “I did actually have a date like that once, y’know. Unintentionally. She was like a mute. I resorted to spewing a load of highly offensive political stuff but even then, she didn’t bat an eyelid.”

  “She probably went home and told all her friends what a bigoted pig you were.” I can’t hide my laughter now. It spills from me in satin ribbons.

  “Oi.” He pauses just a second, lets me fall into step with him properly. “Faux bigoted pig, thank you very much.”

  “You haven’t answered my London question.”

  “I haven’t, have I? I did my training there.” Now he notices my hand–which is inches from his–and his brow dips in what looks like consideration. “After uni…I had no clue what I wanted to do. I just knew I wanted something different. I went off travelling, in the end. To India.”

  “Wow.” That explains that certificate in his file.

  We come to the main road, which is almost empty, and shuffle across towards the intimidating rise of the town gate.

  “Why India?” I ask.

  “I had a friend who liked yoga and stuff. I read up on it, saw how India was a cheap place to live, and just thought, like, fuck it. Ended up staying for about six months.”

  I cock an eyebrow at him. “Doing yoga?”

  He snorts. “Do I look flexible to you?”

  “Erm.” This is the night of the never-ending blushes.

  Art gives me one of his stroking nudges. “No yoga for me.”

  “That’s, uh, good to know. I think.”

  “But I did discover massage over there. They use it holistically–it’s a cultural thing. Ayurveda, they call the traditional medicine culture over there. I don’t really buy into a lot of the medicinal stuff ‘cause I’m a bit too much of a scientist–”

  “Or a bigot,” I supply helpfully.

  “Cait. Language.” He tuts. “As I was saying, before I was so rudely interrupted: I don’t buy into the medicine crap. Chakras and all that. But the state I was in, mentally…I guess I just liked the idea of helping to heal people. Still a sport thing, but not so, ah…I dunno. Anyway. My brother lives in London, so I went to stay with him after. What with doing physio before, the sports massage stuff just made sense.”

  The air between us swells again. The state I was in, mentally…what kind of state was that? It feels too personal a question to ask him and yet he’s laid the edge of himself bare, like an invitation. And he stiffens up as if he’s said too much, but too late. The curiosity will eat me.

  “It’s nice to help people,” I manage.

  “That’s what I figured.”

  I go to turn on to a side street, but he grabs my elbow.

  “This way’s quicker,” he says, dropping the handful of my coat. “Past the square.”

  I follow in silence, almost relishing the opportunity to think around him. To enjoy him. It feels right while we’re still soaked in alternating street light and darkness; he’s made up of glimpses, for all the tease that they are.

  It’s near enough half ten when we reach Cloisters Bar. Fat pillar candles burn in misted windows, and something vaguely jazzy pours from the propped-open door. Art waits for me to walk ahead, then puts a hand to the small of my back to steer me to a tall table on the platform lining the back wall. There are two layers of fabric between my body and his fingers, but it doesn’t feel like it; his touch lingers and I light up like a firecracker, throwing off invisible sparks. Half of me wants to shrug him off and mutter something apologetic. The other half isn’t listening because…aw, hell. We’re in our own space up here, floating above the thin crowd, and I just want to sit with him and burn slowly. Flicker until the pair of us melt.

  I peel my coat off, draping it over the back of the high chair. Art pulls it out for me and waits until I’m seated with my feet dangling against the circular table’s solid leg. The air in here is thick and close, and whole place smells like warm beeswax and grapes.

  “What can I get you?” he asks above the dull echo of the other customers.

  I’d feel rude for telling him what I want–which is a big fuck-off glass of wine, preferably–even though he’s asked. “Surprise me.”

  His face falls. “This is one of those horrible ways women test men, isn’t it?”

  I laugh. “But I like everything! Except…Guinness.”

  “And here I was, about to get two huge pints for the pair of us.”

  I squint at him in the candle light. “You don’t look like the Guinness type.”

  “There’s a type now? I’m a type?”

  “A good type,” I squeak.

  He bends, resting his forearms on the back of his chair. We’re inches apart. His eyes meet mine. “Well. That’s something.”

  I lower my gaze. “I’d like a glass of white wine, please.”

  The corners of his mouth curl up, just slightly. “Coming right up.”

  For a moment, I stop being Cait at Cloisters and fall into the body of Cait Two Weeks Ago, the girl who stood by the vending machine and watched a tall, beautiful boy coil fury into every punch. He wears more clothes now, on his way to the bar, and he cuts through a crowd instead of a punch bag, but I stare after him with the same heavy hunger. I feel it shift in my belly, spread its fingers down to my inner thighs and squeeze like the mocking heat it is. Embarrassed, I twist about in my high seat, legs dangling precariously, and watch as Art catches the attention of a bar man in a smart black waistcoat.

  This is the first spontaneous date I’ve ever been on. Dominic and I had similar groups of friends at school and we got together the way most of those friends did–at a house party. We went out together after that, of course, though he joked that we were above the “clichéd flowers and roses crap.” And maybe some people are, but I never really felt like he was joking.

  In contrast, so far, Art has been a complete gentleman. He’s opened doors, pulled out chairs and shown concern in appropriate places. I feel stupid for not knowing what to do with it, and pathetic for enjoying it regardless. Tonight would be a hell of a lot easier if I could just stop beating myself up.

  Art makes his way back to the table with my glass of wine in one hand and a bottle of beer in the other. He steers through floating groups of customers, nodding here, smiling vaguely there; his clothes are more casual than most, but he doesn’t look out of place for a second. I’d like to borrow a little of that confidence. Get close enough to let it rub off on me.

  “Here we go.” He puts the drinks down on bar mats with feathered edges. “Everything okay?”

  “Yup.” I cock my head towards the wine. “Thanks.”

  “No worries.” He yanks the empty chair out, parks himself, and shuffles back in until our shoulders and knees are almost bumping. Then he tugs the chunk of lime from the bottle of his beer, sets it neatly aside on another bar mat, and takes a long drink. “Now. I have things to ask you. One in particular, actually.”

  I put my chin in my palm, ducking my head slightly to hear him better. “Oh, really?”

  “I keep hearing about these things you bake. And then your friend there this afternoon actually rang up to try and wheedle some out of you…colour me curious.”

  “It’s like a hobby, I suppose.”

  “You must be pretty damn good at it.”

  “I…” Don’t deal well with compliments. But I want to get better. I won’t fuck this up
. “Actually, I can show you some of them.” I dip into the pocket of my coat for my phone. A few clicks later, my Instagram account pops up. “Here.” I pass him the phone, which currently displays a fat chocolate and cherry layer cake bathed in soft green filter light. Even I know it looks good.

  As he flicks through the shots, I take a big sip of wine and let the chill settle my stomach.

  “Wow.” He glances between me and the phone, one eyebrow cocked in appreciation. “These look like something from one of those coffee table cookbooks.”

  “Sometimes, they even taste nice as well.”

  “I’ll bet. Now take them away before I get too turned on.” He hands the phone back with such a straight face that I can’t help but giggle. “What?” he demands.

  I mimic his blank expression. “Nothing. Just…guys and food.”

  “I find food very necessary. I like breathing and moving, ergo I like eating.”

  Ergo. I’m putting that one in my special happy place, along with and such.

  “Next thing, you’ll be telling me that a barbecue doesn’t turn you into a caveman.”

  “It doesn’t.” He puts his wide hands up in protest. “Believe it or not, I’m capable of cooking meat without turning into a grunting imbecile.”

  “You cook?”

  “I attempt it, yeah. I make pretty good Indian food, for starters.” He gives me one of those little nudges, this time accompanied with smug, mischievous eyes. “Naan bread’s a speciality.”

  I can’t hide my delight at this. “I suppose kneading is a bit like boxing, isn’t it?”

  “A little bit.” It’s only there for a second, but doubt flashes across his face, as if he sees something he doesn’t want to over my shoulder. “I don’t really do a lot of that.”

  “Oh. Just…‘cause I see you doing it in the gym. Sometimes.”

  “It’s good for keeping my arms in shape. Important in my line of work.” He looks uncomfortable, and I get the feeling he’s bluffing. “Makes a nice change after I’ve been working slow all day, you know?”

  Oh, I know. I remember his hard work. “I like a bit of speed. Faster classes.”

  “Yeah? Which ones do you do?”

  “Combat, mostly. I just…I like how powerful it is.”

  He starts to pick at the label on his beer. “Bit of an adrenaline junkie, huh?”

  The high I get from a class is hard to put into words: pride, exhaustion, surprise that it’s actually me in the mirror executing that side kick. I shrug. “I like to feel my body doing amazing things.”

  At that, the muscles in Art’s forearm tense and he stops just short of tearing the label clean off. “Right.” With a quick swipe of his fingers, he smoothes it back down against the glass. “I see.”

  “That came out a bit wrong.”

  “Oh no.” He gives a short, sharp laugh. “That came out just fine. Trust me.”

  My cheeks must be as red as my lipstick, which has left a bloodied mist along the rim of my wine glass. “Thinking about it, half the things I say come out wrong.”

  He leans in, his lips full and smiling. “Cait. The only wrong thing about it is how much I like it when you get so embarrassed.”

  “Yeah. That’s kind of twisted. You should get help for that.”

  Still, he smiles at me. I swear teasing is his first language. “I don’t mean it in, like, a sadistic way. More…ah, okay.” He turns away a bit. “You win. I actually can’t think of how to phrase it without sounding like a pervert.”

  I take another sip of wine to give myself something to do. “This is one of those backhanded compliments, isn’t it?”

  “I dunno.” He raises his beer. “Let me drink another couple of these. Then maybe I’ll tell you what I was thinking and you can decide for yourself.”

  “You’re on.” I’m pretty sure he just invited me to get drunk with him. This doesn’t sound like the mark of a great first date (unless you’re Drew, and then it’s a mark of great anything). But it doesn’t sound like a get drunk and let me take advantage of you kind of invitation, either; the way he says it, it’s more like a nerves thing. And the idea that I make this broad-shouldered hulk of a boy nervous…oh. Gosh.

  I reach over and knock my glass against his bottle. “Cheers.”

  “I see we’re drinking to…drinking,” he says, amused.

  “You suggested it. You’re a bad influence.”

  “Me? I have a professional reputation to uphold, you know,” he huffs playfully. “I can’t be seen falling arse-over-tit out there and rolling down the hill.”

  “You wouldn’t even be able to massage yourself back to health. It’d be ironic as well as tragic.”

  He pouts. “You like the idea of me in pain a bit too much.”

  “Oh, shh.” And then I do the thing again. I touch him without thinking–more of a swat, really–and when my hand meets his ribs, he doesn’t move away. Instead, he leans into me, absorbing the impact. The scent of his body-warmed cologne settles over me, and I get the quickest brush of faint stubble across my cheek before he sways back.

  Do you know those new couples you see out? They’re coy and sweet and utterly absorbed in each other; they find excuses to touch constantly. Those touches become caresses, lingering and intense, and the couple float away for seconds in the swollen otherworld of skin. I covet this, always. I grow green with envy at the sight of it. And I’m pretty sure Art and I just did…well…that.

  Any other girl in this situation would let go and enjoy it all, surely. She’d stop analysing the hell out of it and stop thinking she didn’t deserve it. So I take a heady, thick mouthful of wine, and decide right there that I’m letting the fuck go.

  Chapter Nine

  I slam the glass back down harder than I intended, but make the snap decision not to care. I’m dizzy. This helps. “I’m buying the next one,” I tell him.

  “That’s not what we agreed.”

  “Is there some kind of binding law for things said in steam rooms?”

  “Hazel didn’t tell you? It’s all in the induction pack.”

  “You smith with forked tongue.”

  Art laughs again, all throaty and deep. “I what with my what, now?”

  “Smith. Word-smithing. It’s a thing me and Vicky invented–or at least, I think we invented the term,” I explain. “When you’re being all smug and clever and enjoying yourself far too much with words, you’re smithing.”

  “I see.” Art rolls his shoulders back. “In that case, I guess I’m a repeat offender.”

  “You smith hard.”

  “I love how you say that with a straight face.” He shakes his head. “And I’ll have you know that I smith deep, Miss McCoe. There’s a difference between deep and–”

  “–And hard,” I finish for him. “I remember.”

  “Of course you do. Huh.” He gets to his feet, a curious expression creeping up one side of his face. “I’m going to the bar, and then you can tell me who Vicky is. Because it sounds like I’ll be hearing a lot about her.”

  Then he strides off, and I sit there with a big, silly grin on my face because Art talks like we’ll be doing this a lot. He talks like he wants us to.

  When he returns–this time with a bottle of the same white wine for us to share, and two shots of tequila–I tell him about how Vicky and I have been friends since we were sixteen. We met at sixth form college where we were both new girls at the same time, and we bonded over our mutual love of cake and firemen calendars. I tell him about Rich and Drew being my clever shit course mates, and Mills getting into Cambridge, and my mother being a scary hippy who gets aggressive when you so much as mention politics. At this, he winces.

  “She’s not that bad, really,” I protest. “Plus she’s totally too busy saving the world to bug me like Vicky’s parents bug her.”

  He swirls the wine around his glass. “It’s not that.”

  “Oh?”

  “My dad.” He swallows. “I should probably come clean about this
now, eh?”

  I’m not really sure what to do here. “Has he done something…bad? Like, awful X Factor audition bad?”

  Art snorts. “I wish. Have you heard of Sebastian Lyons?”

  “Nope.”

  “See, you make this harder for me, woman. Read up on your current events.” He jabs a finger at me, teasing again. “He’s the local MP.”

  Oh. Wait. I have heard of that guy. And my face must’ve fallen, because poor Art is cringing like someone just punched him in the gut.

  “Yeah. I know, I know. There’s not a great deal I can do about it,” he says, not without apology.

  If I’m remembering right, Mr Lyons senior was in the papers a while ago because of some illicit affair, and he’s somewhere near the top of my mom’s shit list.

  “I’m sorry,” I manage. “I mean, not that he’s your dad. I’m sure he’s a great dad–”

  “He tries. Sometimes.”

  Silence sucks us into a rough bubble. A fat pillar candle flickers in the corner of my vision; I dig my nails into the tender flesh of my wrist. I don’t know what to say that isn’t patronising or trivial…and all I really want is to give him a hug.

  “It’s okay, though,” Art says eventually. “What about your dad? What does he do?”

  “I don’t really know. He buggered off shortly after Mom had Mills.”

  He bends in, strokes his shoulder against mine. “Oh shit. Now I’m sorry.”

  “If it helps, I’d totally choose that over embarrassing MP dad,” I say dryly.

  “Oh yeah. Helps enormously. You know, I didn’t plan for tonight to become the Crap Dad club.”

  I smile at him, despite that. “But…you planned?”

  He digs one big hand into his dark, tufty hair, and the other strokes the stem of his glass suggestively. “Maybe.”

  “You heard about my family. Tell me about the rest of yours.” I feel like he’s given me permission to ask, now. I’ve scraped his edges, and he bleeds softly into the candlelight around us; I will soak him up and relish every second. Even the sad parts. I’ll take them too.