Page 29 of Vine

I burst out laughing. So the guy had a sense of humour after all. Who cared if he was a little weird? He was the only person on this bloody island giving my nerves permission to take the night off.

“Éti teases me a lot,” he explained, eyes back on my earlobe.

“Who’s Éti?”

“Sister-in-law.”

As I took a gulp of brandy, his gaze swerved to my mouth, then just as smartly swerved away again. The tight T-shirt made no attempt whatsoever to hide the quickening of his breath, confirming in CAPS LOCK everything I’d grown to suspect. Nota serial killer, just a lonely horny gay. Fuck, I could work with that. After 500 days without sex, I was contemplating going to church this Sunday just to remember how being on my knees felt. Seemed Sunday was coming early.

“Well, she sounds a fun lady.”

“She is. You have blood coming through your trousers, by the way. On your thigh.”

With a flash of irritation, my fingers automatically went to the growing damp patch. “You know something, Max? Most people would be too polite to mention that.”

“Yes.”

He sounded like that was an irrelevance, but I quelled my urge to give him a piece of my mind. After all, he’d peeked into my world and was still talking to me. Most people, on witnessing the full extent of my arms, would give me a very wide berth.

“You should stop,” he said. “Hurting yourself.”

“Easier said than done, mate.”

“Do you do it because you want to die?”

I snorted with laughter. This guy was something else. “Therapists tend to wait until at least the third expensive appointment before building up to that question, Max.” I paused. “No, I don’t want to die. I do it because…”

My voice trailed off.Because I was an idiot? A drama queen? An attention seeker? Lost? Broken? Spoiled? Immature? Destructive?

My inquisitor supped on his beer, waiting patiently for an answer.

I sighed, feeling awfully weary all of a sudden.“Just because people sing sad songs, Max, it doesn’t mean they want to die.”

He chewed on his lip, brown eyes staring at my thigh in concentration. “That’s a metaphor,” I added. “And incidentally, I have a terrible singing voice. For sad or happy songs.”

He opened his mouth and then shut it again. Then opened it once more. “You should tell me when you think you’re going to need to cut yourself. I could stop you.”

I laughed again, kindlier this time. “Thanks for the offer, but it doesn’t work like that.”

We sipped at our drinks in unison. As a conversation stopper, especially with someone you were hoping to hook up with, recent visible evidence of self-harm was fairly high up the list. Max was still here, though, and still eyeing me like he wanted…something.

Over his shoulder, the landlord wiped down a couple of empty tables. The two hot guys he’d been with earlier had vanished. Only a handful of customers remained.

“You gonna walk me home, then?” Standing with a slight wobble, I reached for my jacket, scarf, and the hat he’d given me and refused to take back. From his expression, my new friend approved of my attention to personal warmth.

“Yes.” His fingers tapped rapidly against each other, like he was itching to get his hands on me. “And then I’m going to kiss you.”

Promising. In for a penny, in for a pound. “On my cheek?”

“Yes. And your mouth.”

I snorted. “Anything else you want to do?”

The skin under his beard pinked. “Florian says you’re homosexual too.”

“Fuck knows who Florian is, but you can tell him his gaydar is on point.”

As we left the pub, Max grasped my hand in his bigger warm one like it was his divine right. I had no objections; the biting wind sweeping in every night from across the Atlantic had lost its amusement value weeks ago. Not bothering to refasten his rubber onesie, my silent companion seemed oblivious.

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