Page 45 of Rookie Recovery

Any trace of Jamie’s mirth had long since vanished. In its place, those pleading puppy dog eyes of his.

“If either of you fellas need the W.C., there’s one just there on the left. I recommend trying to go, even if you don’t have the urge. This’ll be your last opportunity for the next three to five hours.”

“Oh, my God,” whimpered Jamie.

“Yeah, I’m dying for a piss,” I said, pulling Jamie with me, across the mouldy carpet and into the tiny, one-stalled bathroom. I shut the door behind me.

“Oh, my God!” he said again.

“I’ve fucked up. We have to get out of here.” I looked around the chilly, dank room. At the thirty centimetre by thirty centimetre window. Even if we popped the thing out of its frame, there was no way Dr Sullivan was squeezing his line-backer shoulders through that. “We’re gonna have to go out the way we came. And run for it. Okay?”

Jamie absentmindedly squeezed the top of his knee, as though preparing his muscles. “Which way do we go? This place is a fucking labyrinth.”

“I’m great at directions,” I said. I, in fact, was not. “Just follow me. It’s just a left before Alt History of Trolleys, straight through Trolleys of the Great Depression, and another left after Watery Grave: An Abstract Photographic Exhibition of the Abandoned Cart.”

“Jesus, okay. Wait, now can I say it?” Jamie wrapped his hands around both my triceps, and I near enough forgot why we were stuffed into a miniscule, mushroom-factory of a bathroom.

“Yes, you can say it now.”

“He’s … wait for it … off his trolley.” My God, he was cute.

“Very good, Kitty. You ready?” I eked the door open a fraction. Peered out.

“Can you see him?” Jamie asked, hovering over my shoulder. Heat leapt from his body onto mine.

“No, no … There he is! Other side of the Hollywood Wheels. Now’s our chance! Go go go!” I hissed, throwing the bathroom door wide and legging it down the aisles of the museum. Jamie right behind me.

Phineas whipped his head up in our direction like a kitchen-variety velociraptor. But too late. We were too speedy. Sprinting down another aisle. Too fast to notice what part of the museum we were in. My eyes scanned overhead for some form of glowing exit sign, but of course we were in a hell-pit death-trap of a building.

“Quick, here,” Jamie said, seizing my arm and pulling me off to the side, into a tiny alcove between displays, just as Phineas’s willowy frame rounded the corner.

A snort burst free from Jamie’s mouth. I slapped a palm over it, and tried to catch my breath. Just as I realised how cosy the alcove space was. My back was pressed against one wall, Jamie’s back against another, our chests, and the entire fronts of our bodies, moulded together. Panting, heaving breaths. My thigh trapped between both of his. His hips pressed into my stomach. His face, still covered by my hand, was inches from mine.

I could see nothing but him, feel nothing but him, smell nothing but his cologne, hear nothing but our mingling breaths.

His half-terrified, half-hysterical expression melted into something that was both softer and harder. His pupils dilated and fixed on my face, flicking between my eyes and mouth, like he couldn’t decide which was more worthy of his attention.

I dropped my hand, and let it come to rest on his shoulder. And my gaze fell to his lips. His tongue dipped out to wet them. My cock twitched, which he no doubt felt against his own leg.

And we simply stared at each other. For a whole minute, or for a few seconds. It was impossible to tell.

“Kitty …” The word came out like I was begging.

I was.

But Jamie continued to bounce his sight between my lips and eyes, like there was some inner war waging inside his mind.

He wanted to kiss me, as much as I wanted him to kiss me. I was sure. I moved my hand from his shoulder and curled it around his nape, noting the way the super-soft shaved hairs at the back of his head caressed my palm.

He wanted to kiss me, but I knew he wouldn’t. Not of his own accord. His own self-imposed rules were standing in the way. I would have to make the first move. I narrowed the gap between our lips.

“Bowie,” he said, in an impossibly quiet voice. Almost as though the word had become stuck in his throat.

I drew closer still. My heart trying to escape through my ribcage and take up residence in his. The headiness of his cologne and our mixed breaths was making me feel deliciously drunk.

Our noses brushed together.

“Jamie,” I whispered, using his actual name. Now or never. “Will you kiss me?”

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