I can hope.
I shove my fingers through my hair, knowing I’m a physiatrist’s wet dream right about now. But it’s giving me the control I need to walk away from her when every fibre of my being wants to turn around, haul her against me, and go for round two, three, four…
‘I’d leave if I were you,’ I say without turning. ‘Unless you want to explain to the rest of the villa why you’re still in my bed come morning.’
That gets her moving. The horror ofusbeing known does what I couldn’t. I’d laugh if it didn’t hollow me out all the same.
I turn on the shower and listen, every nerve straining.
The soft click of the door signals her leaving, and only then do I let out a breath.
She’s gone.
Relief crashes in, then curdles. Because I still burn for her, worse than ever.
Because now I know this side of her. How she looks, tastes, feels, my name breaking on her lips when she comes.
And I can’t decide if that’s my punishment… or the only pleasure worth knowing.
6
AXEL – ‘THE PROTECTOR’
Twenty-Five Years Ago…
I shove open the front door with my shoulder, then stop dead, listening.
The hallway’s dark and damp like always. The stench of stale fags and booze, no different.
Welcome home, Ax.
The TV rumbles behind the lounge door, the flickering light seeping through the crack at the bottom. Next door’s dog barks through the paper-thin walls on one side; old Mrs Potter’s radio blasts away through the other. But no voices.
Good.
If I’m lucky, Mum and Dad are passed out in front of the telly. Or better yet, down the local on a lock-in. I ain’t checking.
My stomach growls like it’s trying to eat itself and I head for the kitchen. It’s always like this after a fight. Once the rush dies, the savage hunger kicks in. And it won’t quit until I eat.
I push open the kitchen door, careful not to catch my footon the lino curling up, and start digging through the crap on the side. Dirty plates. Takeaway tubs. Empty boxes. Nothing.
I try the cupboards. Half a loaf of mouldy bread. Stale biscuits. Dad’s tin of weed. A bag of flour from one of Mum’s ‘good days’.
Great.
I crack open the fridge and nearly gag. Something’s dying in the back, I swear. But last time I binned anything, I got the back of Mum’s hand. Not doing that again.
There’s an open can of beans shoved in the door. I give it a sniff. Good enough. I grab a spoon, wipe it on my tee and jab it in. Fill a glass with water and take the lot to my room.
I’m rifling through my clothes, yanking out my stashed bag of protein powder, when the door creaks open.
I freeze.
‘Going to bed without saying goodnight?’
Dad’s voice drips with mockery and I turn to look at him.
He’s leaning into the doorframe, a bottle of cheap vodka dangling from his hand.
