Page 120 of Break Out the Girl

“Herd sheps, you silly-willy,” I tell him.

He doesn’t guffaw at my excellent joke, but I feel a tingle in his aura, so I know he’s amused—secretly and silently.

After some splattering frying and unsatisfying fork-mashing, I’m finally ready to put the shepherd's pie in the oven.

“Aren’t pies supposed to have crust?” BF asks, obviously desperate to learn from my vast culinary knowledge.

“Don't worry, young Fuckwad,” I grin. “My peaks will be the finest golden crusty pots you’ve ever seen.” I slide the heavy pan into the gas oven, slam the door shut, then give Mrs. Tomato a quick twist so she can keep track of the Mississippis.

With the grub safely ticking away, I lean against the counter and look down the tiny corridor that leads to the two bedrooms.

BF (also short for Bossy friend) has masterminded our new sleep schedule.

Little Skylight is permanently billeted with Kitten and the zebras, sleeping tucked up safe in the back room. BF has his hammock, and that means Shane, Burt and I have been playing a proper game of musical beds.

One sleeps in the first bedroom, one on the pull-out, and one in with the two lovely ladies. No funny stuff, obviously. Our Sky doesn’t need that energy around her.

A shudder runs down my spine. Her vibes are so delicate right now.

The others don’t get it.

Only me, Fuckwad and Sky have been in that hell-world that turns sex into something so repulsive and rancid, it will take a lifetime to wash away. Don’t get me wrong, my faun-horn is large for Kitten, but…

But, I’m confused too.

On the yachts and at the parties, I hated my body for getting hard when I was forced to perform. I’d do everything in my power to stop it happening.

I’d think about a woman called Christine who lives in West Sussex—only sixty miles from Nan’s flat btw—she holds the world record for the longest bath in a tub full of maggots.

Ninety minutes.

Not ninety-one minutes, or ninety minutes and three seconds. Ninety minutes precisely. Which is so deeply impressive. Imagine the dexterity required to flip yourself out of ten gallons of squirming larvae exactly on the ding.

Or Ken from Derbyshire who ate thirty-six cockroaches in one minute. That seems easier, because you’d just stop chewing when the timer went off.

Another erection-distraction was Anthony from India, who still holds the record for longest ear hair grown. Over seven inches currently, and still extending.

But sometimes those distractions weren’t enough and my body would still betray me. Stupid, idiot body.

“London?”

My favorite voice in the world nudges the ear-hair and belly-worms from my brain-box. Kitten is standing at the entrance of the narrow corridor. She’s wearing fresh clothes, delivered in the stash by her bro. A dreamy soft sweater over snuggly leggings. Her short blonde hair is wild and fluffy from sleep, and smells like peach and vanilla shampoo.

“You’ve got that look in your eye,” she says to me. “The one when you go some place bad in your head.”

Busted.

My throat goes all hot and tight. Nobody has ever seen past my clutter. I know my head is like a hoarder's house. I don’t want the mess, but it is what it is. It can’t be fixed.

So I change the subject. “Do you know what these are?” I ask, shaking the offensive green bundle at her. “Leaves are fine, but unknown leaves? They leaf a lot to be desired.”

“Collard greens,” she answers, taking the veggies out of my hand and putting them on the counter. The next second her arms snake around my waist. “What’s going on, babe?”

Babe?

Bloody hell, my peepers are filling up again. I got a nickname! And not one like ‘idiot boy’ or ‘waste of space’.

Babe.