“Reuben, I want you to.” The truth is stark in my voice. If he can confide in me, it will mean that I’m more than a mistake in the book of his life—a silly little footnote he wants to forget. If hecan tell me just one of his secrets, then I’ll know I’m an adult to him—an equal.
He hesitates for long enough that I think he’s going to, but then he breathes in long and slow, and I know he isn’t going to. Disappointment floods me, making my belly hurt, but I push it away because I don’t have the right to that feeling. “It’s okay,” I whisper. “I know you can’t.”
“Not can’t. Iwon’t. Not to you. It would be the worst thing I’ve ever done, and my soul is tarnished enough.”
His breathing is rough, and my heart is hammering as if I’ve run a marathon without stopping. I knew, objectively, what he does for a living and what he would have seen, and that’s bad enough. Even more horrifying is the danger he faces. I swallow hard, but panic is filling me that this brave, beautiful man will step into that danger with no protection. His camera won’t save him from bullets. It can’t even stop his PTSD. He can deny it all he wants but I know that’s what he’s got. We did some lessons on it at school, and I bless the fact that it was a rare day that I paid attention in class. Education may not be the pathway to a brilliant career as my grandparents are hoping, but it’s certainly given me the tools to understand a tiny part of this quiet photojournalist.
I run my hand over his chest. He’s obviously felt fragile about using his camera lately, like those awful images he’s photographed are haunting him somehow. His shaky hands and the way his face gets stern and pale—there’s something going on there, and when I imagine those fragile moments happening to him in a war zone, all I can think about is what a target he could be. For danger, for accidents, or worse.
“I can’t bear the idea that you could get hurt.” I freeze, wondering for a second if that passionate declaration just came from me. Unfortunately, it did, and I sounded horribly young. I swallow hard. “I mean—” I start to say, but he groans and rollson top of me, kissing me and touching me frantically, and all my words fly away as I’m lost in the way he takes me apart and yet somehow puts me back together.
Reuben
I wake slowly. My arms are full of Xavier’s warm weight, and his hair is tickling my nose. I inhale and catch his warm scent and the smell of sex. I tighten my grip. “What time is it?” I mumble.
Xavier stirs, one long leg sliding between mine and brushing my cock, which is already hard. “Too early,” he croaks. “Go back to sleep.”
His body immediately goes lax against mine, but I can’t obey his urging. Instead, I linger, unwilling to let go of him. His earlier words echo in my head on a constant refrain. The barely hidden eagerness behind the thought that we’d see each other again, and his passionate fear for me. Shit. He’s so fucking young. Why couldn’t I have met him when he was older? My lip quirks humourlessly. Or why couldn’t he be someone else’s son? I have a brief vision of meeting him in a gallery somewhere. He’d be older and ready for me, and I wouldn’t be such a complete fuck-up.
I rub my eyes with my spare hand. This is such a mess, and it’s only going to end badly. I couldn’t outright reject the idea we’d see each other again. Oh, I wanted to, but the words wouldn’t come, so I distracted him with sex, hoping my silence gave him the answer. The only trouble is I’m not sure if my own brain or heart got the message.
The thought of not seeing him again should fill me with relief. At last, this extremely combustible situation is going to end, and it will end before it has the chance to blow up in all our faces. I’m not feeling relief, though, because I suspect I might be utterly devastated when I can’t see him anymore, when I can’tfeel this horrible mess of laughter and fascination that I’ve only ever had for him.
I used to watch friends have affairs and break up marriages and relationships, and I’d wonder why they were compelled to make such huge messes of their lives. Monique and her partner were a prime example of this. A tiny part of me used to think they were weak, but now I know that all it takes is meeting the right, or incredibly wrong, person. Now I know that it takes a huge act of courage to torpedo your life for another person.
I should have said no when he asked for more. I should have let him down gently and left the hotel. Instead, I fucked him again. And, of course, this is no longer just fucking. It’s too tender, too rooted in wanting him because of who he is and not because he’s an available shag. I tighten my grip on him, and he makes a sleepy sound of protest, but I don’t let go. I’m starting to wonder whether I can.
I reach out and hook my watch from the bedside table, bringing it close to my face and squinting to read the numbers. They finally come into focus, and I blink in horror.
“Shit,” I snap. “It’s morning.”
“What?” He grumbles as I leap out of bed. “What are you doing?” he asks plaintively.
I lean over, planting my fists on either side of him. “It’s morning. Jez will be knocking any minute. Come on. Get up.”
He rolls his eyes. “That man has many faults, but getting up early is the truly horrendous one.”
“He doesn’t have that many faults.”
He offers me what my godmother always called an “old-fashioned” look, then rolls out of bed. He stands, stretches lazily, and I gulp. He’s so beautiful, his body lean and golden-skinned, his hair a mess. I can see stubble burn on his shoulders and back, and I push down the impulse to shove him back into bed.
He shoots me a sultry look, and I shake my head, nearly laughing. “Pack it in,” I say. “Get dressed.”
He floats around the room retrieving his clothes, which takes a while as they’re all over the place. I grin when he finds a sock in the wastebasket and does a herky-jerky dance of self-congratulation.
I slide into a pair of jeans and watch as he pulls on his Converse. When he stands up and heads to the door, I stop him, grabbing his wrist to stop his forward motion.
He looks up at me, his eyes bright in his beautiful face. “What?”
“Don’t go out that way. You might run into Jez.”
He rolls his eyes. “Oh, how dreadful that would be. How on earth will I cope with the fact that someone I only met this week doesn’t approve of me?” He puts his hands over his mouth, aping The Scream painting, and I groan.
“It’s been going smoothly so far, and you’re both getting on together. I don’t want to jinx it, and finding out his best friend is shagging his son is certainly high on the probability to give him a coronary.”
He stares at me. “You think it’s going well between me and Jez?”
I hesitate. “Well, yes. You seem to be getting on well. It’s nice. I wish I’d been able to meet my dad as an adult.”
