Page 93 of For Real

The truth is, I’m not thrilled about the fact half the world has seen my mum’s…y’know…in really intricate detail and in various stages of…jouissance, to use her word, but it’s her…y’know…so I guess she’s got that right. I can’t really get past the fact that it’s a…y’know…and my mum’s…y’know…but if I try really hard I can see it’s kind of…beautiful down there, sort of fantastical like a maze, in all these rich colours… Arrrgh, no, my mum, nonononononono.

Jasper’s staring at me again. I think he’s just worked out who my mum is. Fuck.

This is why I like Laurie so much. He has absolutely no culture. And he comes to my rescue, without even knowing I need rescuing, throwing the rest of Jasper’s clothes at him and insisting he get dressed, in the same voice he uses for me when I’m being naughty.

I bet Jasper finds it hot as well. And he does actually start pulling his clothes on in this incompetent, half-arsed way. In the end, we have to help him, which he seems to kind of like, leaning against Laurie while I do up his shirt and try not to think how fucking smooth his skin is. It’s like he was made to be hurt.

He’s drunk like nobody I’ve ever seen before. Like you wouldn’t know he was drunk…except he is, if that makes sense. Drunk in this deep, cold, empty way.

I’d feel sorry for him, except it’s too confusing.

As soon as he’s semi-dressed, he sinks back into the chair like there’s not a single bone in his body.

Laurie dangles a white bow tie at me. “Better you than me.”

I sigh. It’s true. I don’t want to watch Laurie butcher a bow tie again. But I also don’t want to get up close and personal with Jasper. In case…well…because I might like it.

I try various non–embarrassing positions, like leaning over him or going round the back of the chair, but they don’t work at all. And even though he doesn’t say anything, I can feel mockery gathering inside him, like he’s going to wait for the worst possible moment and then be all Oh, don’t bother.

Well, fuck that. I climb into his lap.

“You’d better let me,” he drawls. “If this is the best you can do, we’ll be here all night.”

“Toby, what the hell are you doing?” That’s Laurie. He sounds seriously ticked off. “Get off him.”

I ignore both of them—because I am tying this bad boy, I am tying it now, and I am tying it right—grab Jasper by his choirboy curls, fling the bow tie round his neck, and tie it. Perfectly. I tie it fucking perfectly.

Then I disembark the good ship HMS Inebriated Wanker, and I hit the remote I’ve got tucked in my jacket pocket because I am peeved with Laurie and his little What the hell are you doing? routine and…also because I want him to know that there’s only him, only him for me, and that’s the only way I have to tell him.

He takes a sharp breath. His shoulders tighten, his hands clench, and he frowns. But he’s kind of a tight and frowny man, so I don’t think anyone would notice a change but me. It’s so fucking hot. Because I know behind his careful posture and his calm(ish) expression, he’s suffering—pleasure and embarrassment both—and that there’s part of him that hates it and a part of him that loves it, and none of it matters anyway because he’s doing it for me. It’s like I’m touching him, right now, in the most intimate possible way.

And oh fuck. Don’t get a boner, Toby. Do not.

When I decide to have mercy on him, he glances my way very briefly, all soft and kissable and sorry and mine.

Good.

He clears his throat. “Come on, J. Time to go.”

Jasper doesn’t move. “I don’t want to.”

“Because of Sherry?”

“I don’t want to see him.” He leans back in his chair and drapes a wrist over his forehead like he’s dying of consumption. I didn’t think people actually did that. He looks pretty and silly at the same time, a bit of his inside wrist exposed under his shirt cuffs. I’m kind of fascinated by how blue his veins are.5

“What’s he done this time?” demands Laurie. No sympathy whatsoever.

Jasper mumbles something.

“What?”

“He. Published. A. Paper.”

“That’s his job.”

“Yes, but—” Jasper shifts forward and curls slowly in on himself like a wilty flower. “But it’s brilliant,” he finishes in this voice of utter despair. “It’s so…clever and engaging and insightful and…original. So fucking bloody original. The bastard. I hate him.” Then, very softly, “I admire him.”

“You’re in love with him,” growls Laurie. “And you have been since he took the top first at prelims.”

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