I started to protest, and he let go of my hand, stopping my words with a touch. He left his hand on my lips.
“And you were so kind, sharing your space, teaching me how to navigate this world. You’re my best friend, HB. And I don’t want to lose you.” His fingers moved to my neck, making a light scratching motion—short nails roughly pleasant on my skin.
“I like it when you call me HB,” I said softly. “I’m sorry if things got weird, like, ah, after the club thing. Until Derek’s influence, I never got how you felt. I made assumptions. My fault. Entirely.”
“Not entirely.” Regge fell quiet again but only for a moment. “To answer your question, no. I’m not looking. Finding lovers is too bloody confounding in this time. How do you decide to be with someone based on their picture? Or a bit of writing on the phone? It makes no sense to me.” He’d tilted his body toward me—his hand relaxed across my stomach. “There have been a couple of offers of coffee. It is the beverage everyone gets when they first meet. Mates from work. A customer or two have offered, but I declined, because that’s against hotel policy.”
“I’m sure that’s just to cover their asses. The hotel, I mean. So… did you go? For coffee?”
“Once, with a sous chef named Tony. He was nice, I guess. But I focused so much on adapting my manner of speech that I missed half the conversation. I’m sure he found me dim-witted.”
I chuckled. His fingertips still tickled my abs. “Coffee dates are difficult in any time period.”
“And you? Have you found someone to have coffee with?” His hand moved away. So I rolled slightly and looked at him.
“You know I haven’t.”
His lips turned inward, but he kept his face to the sky until I sighed and turned back.
Eventually he spoke, his words soft, cautiously steeped in memory. “When I was small, just after my mother died, I suppose, maybe five or six, I was running from a gang of older kids. I found an old chest at the back of a wagon and hid inside until they passed. But then someone put another bundle on top of it and I couldn’t get out.” Regge took a ragged inhale. “The darkness overwhelmed me. I cried and scratched on the wood until my fingers bled. I thought I was going to die there, in the darkness, in that tiny space.”
“How long?” I asked.
“Hours, longer than a day, I think.”
“Oh Reg, I’m sorry. That had to be truly traumatic. Is that what happened at the club too? The small space thing?”
“Of a sorts. It’s not important.”
I replayed the emotional memory in my head. Regge’s panic at being pressed against the wall, enclosed in the arms of a stranger. Desire first, I knew that. But then, the thundering breathless panic that gripped him. I’d felt it all.
“It must have been really strange,” I said.
“I know that I hurt you by being with that man at the club, and I’m sorry.”
“No.” I rolled, propping myself up on an elbow, watching him carefully. His eyes were closed, blond hair mussed over hisforehead, lips parted. I resisted the urge to touch him. “That’s not what I mean. I’m not going to say I wasn’t hurt, but it wasn’t your fault. I was being stupid. You don’t owe me anything. Not an apology or an explanation, but if you want to tell me about it, I’ll listen.”
After a moment, he rolled to face me. We shuffled together against the chill. I dragged part of the sleeping bag over us, and our eyes met in the moonlight, before his cast down.
“This is not about the guy at the club, but…” He sighed, his breath stuttering. I waited, my hand on his neck. He kept his eyes closed as he talked. “You know I grew up on the street, maybe ten years before Theo found me. The older kids took care of me, but everyone worked. The quick ones learned to cut purses, the bigger ones worked as protection for them, the pretty ones, well, they could make good money whoring. A brisk business in my time.”
“It’s brisknow. It’s just changed venues. Sorry. Go on.” My voice was barely a whisper.
He looked at me. “Yes. And I was both quick and pretty, so…”
I wanted to pull him into my arms and hug him, soothe his pain away, but a nod got him talking again.
“My friend Oliver was three years older and kept me from that side of things. I focused on nipping purses. Grew bolder, faster. We had a system. The smaller kids were the distraction. I’d get the goods while others planned an escape route in case I had to run.” His grin flashed in the moonlight. “I never had to. Most of my marks never knew what hit them. When Oliver was killed, I left the gang and worked on my own.
“When the sickness hit London, the nobles left for their country houses, the playhouses shut down, merchants were few. Only the brothels and pubs were open. I was starving.”
“How old were you?”
He shrugged one shoulder. “I don’t know, twelve? Thirteen? My first time was with a young soldier. Clean, for the time. Two shillings bought his mouth on me while he fondled himself.” His gaze skittered away. “I was ashamed that I got pleasure out of it. But he bought me a meal afterward, and I found there were others that only wanted that. The women in the brothels took a liking to me and shared tips on an easy mark. Who was safe. I told myself it was just until the pickings became plum again. If a man wanted more than I was willing to give, I refused and went hungry.”
I let out a deep breath. His eyes were still closed, his forehead crinkled. I pulled the sleeping bag over him, not speaking, letting my touch reassure him. His gaze lifted to the stars as he spoke again.
“The trade was prevalent but not considered for decent folk. As a boy, I had to be especially cautious. The Puritans’ ideas were heavy throughout London. What a sorry lot. They outlawed pretty much everything fun.” His lips parted in a quick grin. “Drinking, whoring, singing, dancing, plays, everything. Not that I considered what I did to eat as fun, but you know what I mean.”
