Page 12 of Sleep

Not much, it seemed. A few days away from this place hadn’t been good for me. I was tired and twitchy, not on the ball, which wasn’t like me. I was THE ball person. I was…

With a sigh, I kicked off my heels and stared down at my legs.

I had good legs. Nice feet, not too big, and being just over a size seven meant I could find shoes for all my whims and occasions right on the high street. Sometimes I had to order online. Sometimes I borrowed my mum’s things, like this yellow floaty number I’d found at the back of the wardrobe. Dad had laughed when I’d twirled round the room, a vision of yellow chiffon matched with a deep-purple cardigan that had seen better days.

“Do you want me to take that in?” he’d offered.

Yep. My dad still knew his way around a sewing machine and could tailor clothes for me by sight. While I had to use measuring tapes and pins, Dad would just hold it at arm’s length, a tweak here, a pinch there, then clasp it under the pressure foot and deliver perfect seams in an instant of pure magic.

I’d worn this dress before—I could still picture Mum’s smile in my mind as she’d adjusted the lay of the sheer fabric. Small memories, flashbacks to times when she’d still had some control over her limbs, over who she was. I was terrified even thinking about it, but perhaps she was still in there, trapped by her own mind.

Like I was in a way.

I was not a bad-looking human, I knew that. And I was fully aware that I had male body parts, which was fine by me. I had a good physique, strong and fit, a chest with some definition that was more than cooperative when strapped into a padded bra. I didn’t need much help to create a visible cleavage. I had absolutely no ambition to ever go under the knife. I liked my body, really, I did. I liked my hair and my face and the skin I was in.

I also really liked clothes and make-up, changing my features with a brush of colour and outlining my lips to give myself an enviable pout. I had skills. Lots of them.

I was just me. A pale package of a human being that I could shape and bend into character, manipulating whatever part of me decided to come out to play. Mark had always laughed at me when I’d stayed over, saying he never knew who he’d wake up with in the morning. Truer words never spoken. I didn’t even know myself most days. Not until I picked out my outfit for the day from my clothes that were usually hung neatly on a rail, not stashed in black bin liners in my parents’ garage as they were now.

I had no idea who I was anymore. I felt like a clown, a traitor, someone who had been tricked into a false sense of belonging only to unmask myself as the biggest fraud of all.

Overdramatic? Me?

“Babes.” And here was Mark again, kicking the door open with a well-aimed jab of the foot as he was carrying two cups of tea. I could tell from the waft that hit my nostrils even though my eyes were still closed, trying to compose myself and be whoever I was supposed to be.

“Yes?” I said weakly.

“Tea,” he stated, plonking the cups on the desk and placing his perfectly tight bum on the stool next to it. Then he stared at me.

I stared back.

“What’s up with you now?”

Like he didn’t know. Well. I ran my fingers through my hair, adjusted my stance so I looked more in control. This was a dance we performed, a peacock fight neither of us would ever win. We were so incredibly different. I knew him better than I’d ever known anyone, including my ex-husband. Yet Mark didn’t seem to know me at all, and looking at him now, with that bewildered expression on his face, I started to doubt everything.

“You’re my best friend, Mabs,” he said softly. “And you’re hurting. Hurting bad, but you won’t speak to me. I have no idea what’s going on in your life.” He paused, continued. “Mr Templar was asking for you again. He’s still out there. He asked for a strong espresso. I managed to manipulate him into a green tea. I swear he’s trying to kill himself. He came in twice this week, both times asked for something to clog his arteries and drive his doctor to drink. And a glass of Shiraz.”

“He doesn’t know what’s good for him, that man.”

“You shagging him?”

“What?” I shrieked. “Are you serious?”

“No, but it got you out of that funk you were in. Handsome bloke, though. Bit too old for you.”

“Also straight, Mark.” Mr Templar? WTF?

“Never say never. I’ve been known to turn the straightest of heads.”

I’d always admired his confidence, is absolute belief in his own irresistibility. I couldn’t even spell the word.

Okay. I was attracted to men. Very much so. I’d never even looked at a woman, which made my appearance and quirks even more confusing. I liked men. I liked cock. And I very much liked what my own equipment could do.

My sexual desires were straightforward, but communicating them to others was always tricky since I didn’t present as what I was, and people made a lot of assumptions. The questions I got asked were…frankly intrusive and weird, which usually turned me off anyone who even attempted to wink at my sorry arse.

“You need to get laid, have a bit of a fling,” piped up the voice of wisdom across the desk. “Find somewhere local to lay your head at night rather than do that dreary commute out to your mum and dad’s. Say hi from me, yeah?”

“Sure.” I sensed this little heart-to-heart was coming to an end. “Getting laid is the last thing on my mind,” I added. “I need to find a flat. And I need to get a life.”

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