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“I’ll call a cab.”
“With what phone?”
“I’ll hail a cab.”
“One will just pass by?”
“It’s a busy road. Probably. And if not I’ll just stand at the kerb, looking sultry until someone offers to take me to the JR for a ride on my cock.” I leaned in to torture myself, brushing my lips against his cheek. “I’ll be fine.”52
Leo just nodded.
And then there was nothing else to do except leave. Over the footbridge. Then up the path, past Salter’s Steamers, trying not put too much weight on my ankle. At least it wasn’t far. At least the frost was mostly puddles now.
I shouldn’t have looked back.
Leo was already aboard, pulling a pair of gloves out of his pocket. An action which made no sense whatsoever because he was not the sort of man to forget he had gloves in his pocket in the middle of winter.
Which was when I recalled, with such vividness it was as if he was touching me still, his hand and mine on the tiller. His cold skin, gradually warming with mine.
That fucking sentimental idiot.
The sharp edge of the wind made my eyes sting.
13
As predicted, Edwin was waiting for me by the traffic lights where the towpath split from Abingdon Road. He was dressed for winter in his Paddington Bear duffle coat, his trousers tucked into a sturdy pair of Timberlands that definitely wouldn’t have led to his slipping on the ice and spraining his ankle. The wind had ruffled up the cute little curls that had escaped his bobble hat.
God, I shouldn’t have called him. I should have called literally anyone else. I had no right to feel such pain at the sight of someone I had left.
“Hi,” I said.
“No.” Edwin shook his head. “N-not hi.”
“Not hi? Hello? Salutations. Guten tag. Dziendobry. Ni—”
“Trys-s-sorry, Edwin.”
Poor Edwin. He’d never done well with sibilants, which meant even demanding an apology could sometimes trip him up. “Sorry for what?”
“Most recently, b-bu-bu…” He paused, jaw tightening. “Being rude. Bu-bu…” Another pause, jaw tightening even further. Nowonder his dentist was concerned about his back molars. “Beingfu-fu-fuckingrude. At your mother’s.”53
Unfortunate, really, that occasions of my being fucking rude required such specificity. “I’m sorry, Edwin,” I said, “for being fucking rude at my mother’s.”
“And thank you, Edwin. For helping me out. Even after being f-fucking rude at your mother’s.”
“Thank you, Edwin,” I said, “for helping me out. Even after being fucking rude at my mother’s.”
He stared at me for a long, clearly unsatisfied moment. Then his shoulders slumped. “Car’s under the Hertford building.”
It was probably the nearest a vehicle could get without blocking the road and was still illegally parked. If I kept close to the wall, I’d make it.
“You can lean on me.” Edwin was clearly still pissed off but not so pissed off—never so pissed off—it interfered with his capacity to be nice.
I hobble-hopped doggedly forwards. “I’m fine.”
“Yes, that is definitely the gait of s-someone who is fine.”
“Wow.” I paused, partly out of necessity, partly for emphasis. “Getting dicked down by a lumberjack has made you mouthy.”
