“Jimmy?”
“Oh. Yeah, I’ll call Billy after finals.”
“Why not this evening? There’s no time like the present.” She injects a forced, bubbly brightness into her voice—the same kind of voice used in commercials.
“I’m busy revising.”
“I hate that you two aren’t close anymore.”
I bite my tongue before I say something I shouldn’t. Forcing us to communicate won’t make things better between Billy and me. We’ll have a polite, but strained conversation to keep Mum happy, and then lapse into mutual silence for months on end again.
“Please call him.”
I sigh. “Fine. I’ll call.”
“Thank you.”
We chit-chat for a while. Mum fills me in on everything happening there, ending the conversation with the question I’ve been dreading.
“Are you coming home after graduation?”
“I haven’t decided.”
Yes, I have. I don’t want to go home. I’d have to move back in with my parents and Billy until I’ve got a job and enough savings to put a deposit down on a place. But if I don’t go home, where would I go?
Steph plans to go to America to investigate the bodybuilding circuit there. I could go with her. Not that I have the money for a plane ticket, let alone to live over there. I could stay here. Angus will move off his dad’s farm as soon as he can, but he won’t leave Leeds, so I’d have him for company. Or I could close my eyes,stick a pin in a map of the UK, and go wherever fate tells me to.
“You’ll always have a home with us,” Mum says.
“Thanks.” I don’t want it. Am I ungrateful? Maybe, but thanks to spending a year backpacking between finishing my A-Levels and starting my degree, I’ve been away from home for almost four years. Why would I want to go back to living under someone else’s roof and by their rules?
“Well, I’ll leave you to it. I’ll tell Billy you’re going to call.”
Which means I can’t ‘forget’. Thanks, Mum. “Bye.”
“Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
She hangs up. I stare at my phone for a while. I could organise a hook-up, I've got something to look forward to after I've called Billy.
I open my favourite hook-up app and scroll through the locals who’re looking. Most of the guys have chest shots as their profile picture, although there are a few showing off tattoos, and even one or two dick pics. The women tend to have neck-down profile photos, wearing slinky clothes. What am I in the mood for tonight? Either. I check out a few profiles, but swipe most of them away. It’s not usually this hard to find someone I’m interested in fucking. I’m not fussy.
I find a torso that quickens my pulse. The guy has a nice set of pecs and the faintest trace of muscle definition on his abs. He has no hint of chest hair or stubble,suggesting he waxes. A man after my own heart. Yes, it hurts like hell, but I’m silky smooth for weeks. The only downside is having to let my chest hair grow out enough to wax again. His profile doesn’t say much. Then again, nor does mine. What is there to say? I don’t need a dossier on someone to fuck them. His username is a nonsense string of letters and numbers. Is it the one the app auto-assigned him? Sometimes, a handpicked username can give me hints about someone’s personality, or the things they’re into, but, again, none of that info is necessary. I send the guy a quick message, asking if he wants to come to mine to fuck—no point in bothering with pleasantries or small talk. I want sex. Nothing else. I make it clear that I want to top.
I love sex. It’s my second favourite hobby, after weightlifting. I love getting hot and sweaty with another body pressed against mine. I love making someone else come undone, watching as they orgasm thanks to me.
My phone makes apingsound. Grinning, I check the reply. He wants my address and a time to turn up. Nice. I give him both, giving myself an hour to call Billy and shower. I wait for a casual ‘see you then’ response, and call my twin.
He takes his sweet time to answer. “Jimmy. So good to hear from you.” Pause. “I’m going to take this in my room.” His voice is muffled now, suggesting he’s got his hand over the receiver.
I listen to his footsteps thumping up the stairs, andthen to the whine of a door hinge, followed by a soft clunk.
“Mum put you up to this, didn’t she?” Billy asks.
I bite the inside of my cheek.
“Ten Brownie points for you,” Billy says.
