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“With him, or against him?” Hayden asked.
“Both. One of them’s easier. So go on. Tell.”
Hayden did. The restaurant turned down the lights and changed the music, because it was late enough for that now. The snapper melted on his tongue, and eventually, so did the burnt Basque cheesecake with marmalade and chocolate sorbet—eighteen dollars. He’d suggested sharing, and Luke had said, “Nah. I’m having apple tart. Eat what you like and leave the rest.” So Hayden talked and somehow managed not to eat every bite of that impossibly rich, creamy cheesecake, and Luke listened and laughed a bit sometimes and looked thoughtful other times, and Hayden felt …
Heard. Seen.
Known.
No wine at all, and he was melting, buzzing, by the time they walked out. Luke hadn’t touched him, hadn’t said anything remotely romantic, and Hayden was more aware of the bulk of him, the heat coming off his body, the size of his hands and the scars on his face, than he’d been since he was a kid. He was having some trouble breathing again, in fact, because that was the Sofitel ahead of them, and the parking garage beyond it.
The deciding moment. He didn’t know Luke, not really, so why did it feel like he did? Why did he know that whatever choice he made tonight, it would be OK? And what did he want to choose? He couldn’t even say.
Outside the doors of the Sofitel now, and Luke saying, “Want to take a bit of a walk?”
Hayden let out his breath. “You cannot imagine how much I want to do that.”
Luke smiled. “Let me run up for a hoodie, then. Bring you one as well? It’ll be cooling off a bit, down by the water.”
“Yes,” Hayden said. “Please.”
“Five minutes,” Luke promised, went inside, and strode toward the lifts.
Hayden wouldn’t go in, he decided. More consistent messaging. If you want to be special to somebody, feel like you’re special. Act like you’re special.
Of course, Luke was only here until Christmas, and then he was leaving. For France. Where he lived. What was that, twenty thousand kilometers? The only rational choice was to grab this good thing right here, right now, to soothe his aches and try to soothe Luke’s. If he was so breakable that he couldn’t even manage short-term anymore, if he was going to weep and play Sam Smith songs on repeat when Luke left, he really was going to end up alone with George.
But it felt wrong. That was all. It felt wrong, and he didn’t want to rush. He wanted to savor. He wanted to be desired, not as a distraction for tonight, but for himself. He wanted to want it so much that he felt like he couldn’t wait, and he wanted to wait anyway.
So he waited amongst the late-evening strollers. Hands in the pockets of his dress trousers, scuffing absently at a rough edge of the red-brick footpath with his shoe, trying not to anticipate, and failing.
“Oh, bloody hell.” The voice came from behind him, and Hayden stiffened. Not Julian’s voice this time. Trevor’s.
Hayden didn’t want to turn. He turned anyway. It was the two of them, each with two heavy carrier bags. Coming back from doing a shop at Countdown, obviously. Cozy. Domestic.
He thought about saying, “Hi,” but he didn’t. He just stood there. For once, he wasn’t going to try to deescalate. He was just going to wait and see what developed.
He did take his hands out of his pockets, though, in case something happened. They looked like something was going to happen.
Not that he’d be much chop at fighting, whatever he’d told Julian. He’d be rubbish at fighting, he was fairly sure. He’d never even tried. He was pretty good at running away, but he didn’t feel like exercising that talent tonight, so it might be fighting anyway. Kicking, he reckoned. Grabbing the other fella and pulling him close so he couldn’t land a hard blow. And, when necessary, curling up on the ground with his hands over his head. That, he definitely knew how to do.
Julian said, “That’s it. I’m calling the police.” And then just stood there, because his hands were full of grocery bags. Finally, he set them down, upon which they promptly fell over and spilled out mandarins and potatoes and avocadoes, a bunch of bananas sliding out with them. The rounder fruit and veg rolled all over, and Hayden wanted to laugh, and also considered whether you could do any damage by hitting somebody with a potato. Alas, probably not.
Julian ignored the rolling veg, clearly going for an “I meant to do that” vibe, and, yes, he was pulling his phone from his pocket.
A fella walked by, looking at his own phone, and stepped on the avocado. He stumbled, swore, scraped his shoe, covered with green goo, against the bricks, and said, “You may want to pick those up.”
Everybody ignored him.
Trevor said, “We shouldn’t call the cops. We should kick his arse instead.”
“Oh?” Hayden asked. “Have you learnt to do that, then? I heard I scared you. And as I’d hardly scare a twelve-year-old girl …”
Yes, Trevor was advancing, his fists balled up, and Hayden thought, Right. Kicking’s going to have to do it, because I have no idea how to punch. Meanwhile, Julian was talking urgently into the phone. Something about a stalker, and a threat.
Which was when Luke came out of the double doors.
CHAPTER 9
